


green are the leaves (i leave in mirkwood)

by TeaLies



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (Thranduil Not Being An Asshole most of the time), Bard is the Best, Caring Thranduil, Don't worry there's no romance, Family Dynamics!, Gen, Legolas is young (but don't tell him that), Parent Thranduil, Smol Bean Legolas, This is going to be long, Thranduil Not Being An Asshole, Thranduil just wants to drink his wine and be left alone, Young Legolas Greenleaf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-07 14:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 56,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13437198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaLies/pseuds/TeaLies
Summary: "A choice sits upon his head, pressing down past his elven bones and into his very fae. He must choose either to turn back to the stifling safety of the King's Halls, or venture on into a world that will not offer favours nor protection to an Elf as young and inexperienced as he."OR: Legolas learns what it means to chase freedom, choose, sacrifice and find family even in the darkest of hours.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to my very own (and first) Hobbit fanfiction! 
> 
> For those curious, this will be a full-fledged, big ol' story about our favourite Mirkwood prince learning how to find his feet at a less than opportunistic time. There will be badass elves, badass men, tears, angst, family fluff, family drama, great dads and bad dads and maybe even some death. 
> 
> And of course, lots of Tolkien lore. 
> 
> So strap yourselves in, y'all, cause this is going to be one long and bumpy ride!

 

The day holds the weak warmth of autumn- one where it is not quite cold enough to require the comforts of thicker tunics or robes, and slow strands of light creep into the Woodland Realm. For most, it is a usual day where food must be cooked, patrols ordered and business continues as undisturbed as always. 

 

However for the young prince Legolas, it is far from an ordinary day. He has forsaken- or rather, been given permission by his old tutor Badhron to forsake- his daily lessons in favour of listening in on the debates within the Council Room. Now he sits high above the airy room in a crammed balcony where those who are not part of the King’s council are allowed to listen in. 

 

He is sure, however, that his excitement at being out of his chambers would be greater still if he could actually _see_ past the various other _ellyth_ and _ellyn_ who cram into every wooden seat the balcony has to offer.

 

“ _Ai_ , Faervel, I cannot see anything from here!” Legolas protests to the well-dressed _elleth_ beside him. Unable to keep still, he wriggles in his wooden seat to try and get a better view of the surroundings below. Despite his best efforts, the many sleek and well-groomed heads of the _edhil_ in front of him leave any glimpse of the chamber below a near-impossible dream. 

 

“Hush, Laeslas” says his dark-haired aunt. She wears no sign of impatience on her smooth brown face, and has been consistently reminding him what an honour it is for the youngest prince to leave behind his lessons and listen in on his father’s Council. Now, she frowns as he fidgets and attempts to peer over the row of whispered words and eager faces in front of him.“Do you want to be sent back to Lord Badhron?”

 

That thought of being escorted back to his stuffy rooms for more lessons on the history of the Sindar immediately makes him grow still and stop swinging his legs.

 

“No, I don’t,” he says quickly. Rare indeed are his chances to have a break from the mundane, slow days of endless lessons, and he relishes the excitement of having a break during his lessons to sit in and hear the Council of _Eryn Galen_ speak. The worst thing would have to be returning to his chambers as though he is no more than 20 summers and incapable of sitting still for more than a few hours! 

 

“Silence” calls Elegessil, one of the Silvan ladies and honoured _singyll_ of the King’s Council, from below. Immediately the balcony and chamber obey her command, and just in time. There is the creak and groan of the great wooden doors as they swing open, and in steps his father the King.

 

Well. Legolas cannot exactly see him- but he knows who it is by the way the bond between he and Ada sings happily, and the polite murmurings of greetings by those who sit below him.

 

“It is your royal Adar-” Faervel leans in to hiss, breath tickling his ears.

 

“I know- and Lhosben is with him!” Legolas doesn’t care to rush forward and lean over the balcony to point out his brother; he knows the Crown Prince walks beside Ada by the warm _fae_  he feels pressing at his own spirit. As sturdy as a bough of a great tree touched by the sun, his brother greets him with just the slightest brush of their minds. Their bond within Legolas’ chest swells with the presence of his brother’s mind for a few heartbeats until the touch politely retreats.

 

“Welcome, Thranduil King of this Realm, Staff-Wielder and Defender of Eryn Galen! And welcome Crown Prince Lhosben, He Who Sits in the Shade of His Father and Learns.”

 

Beside him, Faervel groans into the sleeve of her tunic. “For all her seasons, never has Elegessil found more refined epithets for your brother…”

 

An _ellon_ next to Legolas coughs in a manner that is very close to a laugh, but another turns around in his seat to hiss at his Aunt. “Quiet!”

 

“The Council has now commenced- be seated!” _Singyll_ Elegessil instructs, and there is a rustle of fabric and the muttering of old wood as the many elves which comprise of the King’s Council follow suit.

 

“We are here today,” says Ada, and his voice travels to the very corners of the airy chamber, “to discuss our trade with the Men of Laketown, and our own position within this partnership. I am aware that both sides of the discussion have many points to bring to my attention, and ask that you be concise for the sake of not just myself, but all our listeners who are no doubt eager to return to the preparations for the next eve’s dinner.”

 

A ripple of laughter carries through the chamber, and within their bond Legolas senses Ada smiling up at him.

 

 _Hello Ada!_ Legolas greets. The gentle brush of Ada’s ancient mind is all he gets as a greeting, but he does not mind. His father will be focusing intently on the _edhil_ in front of him, and has no time for distractions, not even by him.

 

But through their bond, his father allows him a glimpse of the Council-room, its polished floors and wide table which provides for many _edhil_ to sit. An _ellon_ rises before him- before Ada- and begins to speak. Still submerged within their bond, Legolas catches a flash of green silks and long dark hair which has been carefully braided; Lhosben. And then Ada, with one last soft touch of his mind, carefully closes the bond between them, and Legolas is once more sitting up in the balcony next to Faervel.

 

“Oh yes,” mutters an _elleth_  seated in front of his aunt, “I would much rather be at my cooking station than be here listening to my King speak..”

 

“Ah,” says her companion sagely, “you are apprenticed to Maeasson the Cook, are you not? I have heard he is quite temperamental these days- hasn’t his _hervess_ gone to fight in the South-?”

 

“Would you two be quiet!” The _ellon_ from earlier scolds the two _ellyth_ into silence. “Some of us are trying to listen and not chirp away like bluebirds!”

 

Legolas, feeling Faervel’s expectant gaze on him, politely tunes out the chatter around him and tries to listen in on the speeches of the Council beneath him.

 

“-thus I propose that we should continue on with our trade with the Men of the Lake. They have provided us all with what we need- being, pardon me, my lord, only Dorwinion and wheat.”

 

A chuckle runs through the council.

 

“Yes,” says Ada, his tone dry. “Thank you Míwon, I am well aware of my people’s insatiable thirst for Dorwinion. To break the trade with Laketown would be such a pity for all our people. Now, Lady Inneth, I believe it is your turn to politely rebut Míwon’s argument.”

 

“Thank you, my lord. As Míwon mentioned, we have for so long relied on the Men of Laketown for our wine, but that so long has become too long. Are we not _edhil_ , who pick and source our food from the very earth our gracious _Ivon_ has granted us-”

 

The debate continues on with various members of the council all taking their turns to express their opinions. And their opinions continue on going until Legolas wonders that he has not started growing moss. To be truthful, he finds it is nowhere near as exciting as he’d thought it would be. He’d always imagined the council to be full of sharp words and shouting, but this is slow and stately, much like the many dinners his father and oldest brother are always attending. Of course he knows as Prince of Eryn Galen, he must be attuned to the needs of his people, and their wishes, and must possess all the knowledge he needs to respond in kind to what they need.

 

But who knew debates could be so dull?

 

So instead, he breathes in, and feels for the touch of the forest around him. Being in the King’s Halls for all his life, he has learnt to reach out and find the Song of the forest and draw it close to him as a distraction. And now, just as he'd hoped, the Song slips in past stone walls and a King’s powerful spells. It weaves its way into his _fae_ , wrapping eagerly around him like the warm sunlight of spring and dances before his eyes as a spring-bright forest-

 

“Laeslas! Focus, please!” His eyes snap open to Faervel frowning down at him, disapproval etched into her stiff mouth.

 

“Sorry, Faervel” he murmurs, gently withdrawing from the Song, “It’s just, the speeches are so long..”

 

The frown deepens until the stiff mouth is drawn down with it. “Speeches do tend to be long when you are before the King in Council, and he must listen. But you yourself, as the youngest prince of our people, must learn to sit still and listen to all, regardless of whether or not their words make you want to sleep.”

 

Legolas nearly sighs at her all-too-familiar words but catches himself before he does. “But isn’t that the role of Lhosben? To listen to speeches?”

 

Faervel’s eyes twinkle in amusement. Her face softens, losing the look of disapproval. “And what of your sister Annith, or even your brother Aeglostor? Have they not also had to learn how to sit still and appreciate the Song that comes from many words? As they have, so must you, and this is why Badhron has allowed you to sit and listen.”

 

A sudden awareness makes Legolas’ heart leap. His stuffy old tutor had let him come here today! And while he at first thought it to be a stroke of pure fortune, now it makes sense!

 

“Didn’t Badhron allow Annith to sit and listen to her first council when she was nearly 80?” He asks.

 

His Aunt looks down at him warily. Having been his nurse and care-taker even since his own naneth died, she knows him perhaps better than anyone, save Ada. And she can no doubt see his excitement, and guess now as to what he thinks. “Yes, he did. I suppose though, with you, he knows how diligent you are with your studies…”

 

Legolas doesn’t hear the rest of her words, for something small and delicate has begun to stir in his chest.  _If Badhron let Annith listen to a council when she was near 80 summers, does that mean he thinks me to be ready? Does that mean he may consider talking to Ada about letting me train properly, like Annith or Aeglostor?_

 

“Faervel,” he says quietly, “if tutor Badhron let me come here today, does that mean he thinks me ready to begin proper training?”

 

Now the frown returns to his Aunt’s face. “Proper training?”

 

“As a warrior,” Legolas says eagerly. It is hope that brings his heart to beat wildly under his chest. “Like Annith, or Aeglostor.”

 

Understanding gleams in his aunt’s eyes, but it isn’t a kind understanding; her mouth twists into a look of discomfort, and the look of amusement fades. “Ah, you speak of _training_ training. Laeslas," she gives a sigh, "we have been over this.”

 

“Yes, I know. But I am nearly 60 summers old-”

 

“And Annith was 80 summers before she was allowed to commence training,” His aunt doesn't hesitate to interrupt him, and places a earth-brown hand over his. “Now, please, put this out of your mind and focus on the speeches. Belathon is going to speak now.”

 

Legolas smothers the urge to kick his feet into the back of a chair. _Listening to speeches is the last thing I want to do- I want to_ train _._

 

For seasons now, all he has thought of is training with the King’s Guard- he has known it from the moment he could think and walk and talk. Often when he was buried in endless lessons on grammar and posture and everything that comes with a royal birth, his hands would itch to throw aside the pen and pick up a training dagger, or draw a bow. Of course, he does not want to fight for the mere sake of it, but because it means he will see the forest, and help his people. As a prince he must find a way to bring meaning to the position he was born into. For him, the only path is through becoming a warrior.

 

Apprenticeship under a Commander begins every _Ethuil_ in the Halls, and while he knows he is too young to be fully apprenticed, he has been begging his sister Annith enough times that she is beginning to consider it.  _At least, that’s what she told me, last we met_.

 

It’d been at a formal dinner, one for the _Mereth-en-Iavas_ , and she had been reluctantly dragged away from her Garrison by Ada to participate. Wearing a pretty gown and a look of great pain, she’d listened to Legolas as he’d told her all about his longing to see the forest- or anything, really- that was outside of Ada’s Halls, and how he wished to hold a bow and notch an arrow or throw a dagger.

 

It was the same little speech he’d given her at the last Feast of Autumn, and the one before that, and it had paid off as she’d snapped five little words: ' _Alright, I will consider it_ '.

 

And then she’d told him to shut up and eat his food, but Legolas didn’t take it badly; how could he, when his _fae_ had been alight with joy?

 

 _I will train_ , he thinks quietly. _And then I won’t have to sit in the Nursery all day and have my family treat me like an elfling_.

 

But this mingled rush of longing and frustration fades, for the room has changed- more than that, it has grown louder. The _ellyth_ and _ellyn_ all around him are murmuring, turning to each other- some are even on their feet, peering down the balcony!

 

A rush of words greet him. “-we must break our self imposed isolation, and gather our forces- turn to the South, once and for all!”

 

“Sweet _Ivon_!” Faervel rises to her own feet, her eyes widening. “Has he been bitten by a _ungol_ himself?”

 

“Is that Belathon who speaks?” Legolas asks, for the _ellyth_ in front of him have rushed forward to view this wild speaker, whose voice rises and falls like the crack and rumble of a summer storm, and he still cannot see anything.

 

"Drive out the _yngyl_ and we find ourselves with new land- and new ways of trade! We would become the leading partner in trade in all of Arda- no longer confined to these Northern reaches of forest!”

 

He has heard of Belathon son of Laeron before. From what Annith has told him, the Silvan elf was an archer on his brother Aeglostor’s company for many seasons, until he surprised the entire Kingdom and became interested in the politics of the court. Legolas has heard the name being muttered around his chambers when Ada and Lhosben gather in the study and think he does not listen. But he did not know Belathon had such- such ideas!

 

His Aunt doesn’t seem to hear him. In fact, no one seems to hear or see anything but the speaker. The chamber beneath them is in uproar- lords and ladies shout and bicker, some calling for the speaker to be silent, others shouting their encouragement.

 

“For too many _yen_ , we have sat in the dark and let the Shadow creep in unchecked and unchallenged to the very heart of our beloved _Eryn Galen_! How can our council suggest that we do nothing, while our Silvan settlements are threatened and the woodsmen who make their home by our Eastern borders can no longer enter the forest for fear?”

 

Scrambling to his feet, Legolas propels himself from his seat to the one in front, and then rushes to the very edge of the balcony. A gap remains between two _ellyn_ that is small enough for him to see, gives him full view of the Council. It is indeed Belathon who speaks- and he does so wildly. A tall _ellon_ , the Silvan has a sharp, angular face with high cheekbones that Legolas imagines would cut any who came too close, and has a sharper tongue that he now wields to great effect.

 

Down below, the _ellon_  has risen from his seat at the Council's table and glances about the chamber as though he is trying to reach the _fae_ of every person before him. The wave of his hands seem to push his very words forward, up into the air until Legolas can feel them nestling into his skin.

 

Legolas looks to his brother and father; Ada and Lhosben are as still as mountains before a raging flood. They hardly seem to breathe from where they sit at the head of the table, but even from high above he can see their gazes travelling with the every movement of Belathon.

 

As though realising the eager audience above him, Belathon glances up. His thin mouth curls up into a fierce look of determination. “Would you, _edhil en Eryn Galen_ , be content to sit and do nothing while the Shadow grows even darker and seeks more and more light to take for its own?”

 

His gaze, startlingly silver for one of the Silvan, seems to fall on Legolas.“Will you let our elflings be put in danger, for the sake of your complacency?”

 

For a brief few moments Legolas cannot breathe, caught as he is in the intensity of that bright gaze.

 

“No!” Someone cries out behind him, even as the Council grows louder. Belathon’s eyes release him and travel to the speaker, and something close to triumph crosses his face.

 

“You shame our King!” An _ellon_ shouts beneath them. “How dare you!”

 

“He speaks only the truth!” A dark-haired _elleth_ counters angrily.

 

“Is truth no longer free in the Council of King Thranduil?”

 

“This Silvan  _ellon_ doesn’t know of what he speaks- therefore, it isn’t truth!”

 

“Enough!” Ada rises suddenly from his seat in a ripple of silks, and the entire chamber falls to murmurs. “Belathon Laeronion, your speech-time has ended. I thank you for your impassioned ideas; the Council will take much time to consider them.”

 

The dark-haired _ellon_ bows politely, yet there is something stiff in the gesture that makes Legolas think he isn’t being polite at all. “That is all I ask, my King,” he says smoothly as he takes his seat.

 

“Now that is how you make a speech!” An _elleth_  with strikingly black hair in front of Legolas says to her companion.

 

“He’s as mad as the _yngyl_ he talks so angrily of!” Another hisses. “To make it seem as though our King and council are letting the Shadow cross into our borders- that little _ellon_ doesn’t know what he speaks of!”

 

“Laeslas? Laeslas! Come, let us sit back down.” Even amongst the crowd Faervel manages to find him, and grasps the sleeve of his tunic as though he is no more than 12 summers old.

 

“I didn’t know Belathon spoke so well!” Legolas says to her, gently pulling out of her grasp once they sit down upon the wooden seats.

 

“No,” Faervel says grimly. Her eyes are shadowed, and to his alarm he sees a thin line of sweat growing on her brow. “I would not have you listen to him again. He speaks well, to be sure, but his ideas… they do not sit well with your Adar, nor many on his Council.”

 

“Faervel?” Concerned, Legolas brushes her wrist with his fingers; the life beneath his touch continues on as always, firm and steady. It does little to soothe the alarm that makes his heart kick. “Are you well?”

 

His mother’s sister blinks slowly, and then returns to herself. “I am well, _Laes_ …I just…” She looks about her, and then to him. Her dark eyes, the same shade of newly turned earth, flicker across his face almost desperately. “Perhaps we ought to return to your chambers. The Council is nearly finished, and I wish for a cup of cool water.”

 

“Of- of course,” Legolas rises with her, alarm prickling at his skin. _What does she see? What concerns her so greatly?_

 

No one seems to notice as the two _edhil_ depart, nor do they concern themselves with the way the _elleth_ leans heavily on her smaller companion as though she would fall if he did not hold her up.

 

All of their gazes are instead caught like trout in a net, drawn to the dark-haired figure of the Silvan Belathon, who sits beneath them and yet smiles. 

* * *

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Legolas gets impatient, Lhosben is exasperated, and Belathon thinks he's cooler than everyone.

The remainder of the day passes quickly; his tutor Badhron excuses Legolas from lessons upon seeing the frail form of his Aunt, the way she clutches his arm.

 

Faervel retreats to her own chambers, despite Legolas begging her to let him aid her, fetch the Healers to assess her. “All I need is rest, Laeslas," She had said wearily. "Don't go bothering those healers, now.”

 

And for once, he is left to do as he pleases. It is a strange feeling- rare are the days where he has not a pressing lesson to attend, or time with Ada needed to be filled. While his worries for his Aunt leave him restless, makes his legs burn with a desire to run, he decides abruptly that he is of no use pacing the corridors, and goes to head down to the kitchens.

 

Only to be stopped as he passes the chambers of his brother by a stern faced guard— “Prince Legolas, your royal brother Lhosben wishes to speak with you.”

 

“Me?” Legolas squeaks out. Immediately he flushes, clears his throat. “I mean- where does my brother intend to meet with me?”

 

Beneath his expressionless face, Legolas thinks he sees amusement within his eyes. “In his chambers, my prince.”

 

“I thank you,” he says, and hurries into the chamber as the guard steps aside. Has he done something wrong? Lhosben so rarely calls for him- his brother is many, many seasons older than he, with a family of his own who he spends more time with. He even has a son who is older than Legolas himself! From what he can recall- which is everything- his oldest brother has only ever called for him when Legolas has done something wrong, or is required at a formal event.

 

But when he enters the private study of his brother, steps into the airy room and its shelves upon shelves of books, Lhosben greets him with only a smile. “Legolas, it is good to see you.”

 

Lhosben is the only one of the family to call Legolas by his name- the rest use the pet name of Laeslas, given to him by his mother- and it makes him stiffen.

 

“Hello, Lhosben.” He greets his brother shyly. “Have I-have I done something wrong?”

 

Dressed still in the green silk of the Council-room, Lhosben tilts his head and smiles. “No, _laes_ , you haven’t. Only, I noticed you attended the Council today, and listened in on the debates. Old Badhron let you out of your chambers for once, eh?”

 

Legolas relaxes; he isn’t in trouble. “For once,” he agrees. “And- and I am glad he did. The debates were..” He searches frantically for the right word. “Interesting?”

 

Lhosben’s smile grows into one that makes his dark eyes shine. “A most diplomatic choice of word! Badhron will make a Messenger out of you yet! Yes, the debates were ‘interesting’. A headache for Adar, to be sure.”

 

Concerned, Legolas peers up at his brother. _First Faervel, and now Ada too?_ “Is Ada alright?”

 

“Oh, he is well, _laes_ , don’t worry. Today’s Council was just loud, and some _edhil_ outspoken.”

 

_Does he speak of Belathon?_ “I did not know Belathon spoke so well.” He says tentatively.

 

Immediately Lhosben seems to want to scowl, for his face twists as though he has tasted one of Cook Maeasson’s sour lemon-cakes. “Nor did many on the Council.”

 

“What-what did you think of what he said, today?”

 

His older brother snorts in a very unprincely manner. “Oh, he doesn’t know anything. He thinks nothing of those who give their lives and time to defend our Realm, and looks only to gather more wealth in his pocket.”

 

Surprise makes Legolas take a step back. Never has Lhosben been so open with him! And did he really mean to say that Belathon was greedy for wealth? From what he remembers, not once in his speech did the Silvan claim to want for wealth. “But Aeglostor always says that Belathon is a brave warrior-”

 

Already Lhosben is shaking his dark head, braids sliding across his robes. “I would not listen to everything Aeglostor says, _laes_. He is as stubborn as Belathon, and you know how much he riles Adar.”

 

“Oh, alright.” Legolas knows when a conversation is finished, and peers around the study, the curtains of green and white. “But- what did you call me here for?”

 

Lhosben sighs, and bends down to fiddle with some papers on his desk. “I only meant- the debates today, they were not too..wild for you, were they?”

 

_Wild? Does he think I am still an elfling, to be scared off by a bit of shouting?_ Legolas bites back a sigh, and the rush of irritation that follows. “No, Lhosben, they weren’t. I am 57 summers old, you know.”

 

“Oh, I know,” Lhosben says, and it is more gentle than he expected. “We all know, _laes_.” He has a strange expression on his face, one that Legolas cannot read. And it irritates him, makes him suddenly want to snap, or shout.

 

_If you all know, then why do you still treat me like I am 10 summers old?_ Legolas wants to shout, or wail _._ But wailing like a child will get him nowhere. He forces a breath into his lungs until he can feel them ache with the amount of air he holds. 

 

_Shouting will not make my brother listen; I must be like him, and approach the subject carefully_.

 

Lhosben looks to his papers; one hand reaches out, shuffles them- a nervous tic. “I…understand how difficult it can be. Being a beloved child.”

 

_What?_ The conversation has turned suddenly from one path to another, and he scrambles to catch up.

 

Lhosben’s dark eyes find his, heavy black lashes sweeping against chestnut-brown skin. “Adar took seasons to persuade, when I wanted to first begin my lessons as Crown Prince. He wanted to keep me forever as an elfling, safe near him.”

 

“But?” Legolas feels hope fluttering against his _fae_ , tickling his chest like the wings of a butterfly. Perhaps his brother isn’t as oblivious to his wishes as he’d presumed; he must know how much Legolas wishes to train!

 

Lhosben smiles, but the edges are touched with something that makes him appear…old. Sadder. “But Naneth managed to shake some sense into him. She knew that as Crown Prince, it would be my duty to get to know my people as soon as possible, and that meant me being exposed to everything that came with running a kingdom.”

 

“Oh…” That familiar ache pulls at him, just as it always does when his naneth is mentioned. He knows little about her, and can remember even less so, but still he is aware that there is a void within his own _fae_ , a bond that has lain untouched for seasons and will always be so. It is something he speaks of to no-one, not even Faervel.

 

The smile grows sadder still. “And now with you, _laes_ , Adar does not have anyone else to listen to.”

 

“But”, he can feel his hope slipping through his fingers like the sweet waters of spring, and he takes a step towards his brother, “but you can speak to him, can you not? You are the Crown Prince, his heir and all of that. He will have to listen to you about me wishing to train.”

 

“Train?” Lhosben’s eyes widen, mouth slackening with surprise. Now he looks as though he too is struggling to understand their conversation. “I thought you…”

 

“Yes,” Legolas says quickly, interrupting before his brother can say anything more. “It is training I want. And I know I am young, but I would not have to leave the Halls. I mean, if I could that would be all I ever wished for-”

 

“Train?” Lhosben echoes, as though he has heard wrong. “You wish to- to train?”

 

Legolas nods, even though he is confused at his brother’s response. Maybe he is wrong, and Lhosben isn’t aware of his longing to train, to see the forest. “Yes, I do. Like Annith, or- or Aeglostor,” he gives a smile, well aware of the dangers of using his older brother’s name in front of Lhosben.

 

His brother doesn’t even seem to notice.

 

“Maybe,” he continues hesitantly, for Lhosben makes no move to speak. He just stares. “Maybe you could speak to Ada about it- ask him if I could begin my apprenticeship alongside Annith’s apprentices?”

 

Shock is spreading across Lhosben’s face now, pulling his dark eyebrows down into a frown. “Legolas, you… you are not yet 60 summers.”

 

Dismay grows in him, makes him want to squirm. “I know, brother,” he takes another step until he is right up against the wooden desk and peering up at those earth-dark eyes. “But I am ready. I know I am. And I will work hard to prove it.”

 

“Legolas,” Lhosben says slowly, and this close Legolas can see how wide his eyes are, how his face has lost all of its usual warmth. “It- that request isn’t up to me. It is up to Adar, and you know how he stands on this.”

 

Yes, he knows. But he cannot help but want- _wish_ \- to be more than he is. Legolas takes a breath, and is surprised at how it rattles with nerves. “Ada will say no, at first, but I know he will come round-”

 

One dusky hand raises, halts his words. “Legolas, not only will he say no, he will refuse to even listen. I know this.”

 

“But-” Just as he’d feared, it is as though he runs after his dream and it continually proves to be two, three, four, eight steps ahead. His brother refuses to listen.

 

“You say I have the King’s ear?” It is Lhosben’s turn to interrupt, and he leans in as he does, breath hot on his face. “Then know that what I say is true. Adar will not be pleased by your asking, not when you are so young.”

 

Young? Frustration is building in his chest, beating against his ribs. “Lhosben- _muindor_ ” he tries to speak calmly but the name trembles on his tongue, “I am 57 summers, not 40-”

 

“No,” Lhosben leans back, shakes his head. His eyes skate over him, glancing about as though looking for a way of ending the conversation. “No, Legolas. Do not ask me.”

 

“I-” he cannot bite back the cry of frustration and draws away from the desk. “But I am nearly old enough- at least let me go outside, in the forest! Please, Lhosben, you are the Crown Prince, Ada will listen to you…”

 

“Legolas!” Lhosben says sharply, and he stiffens, waits for the words. “I cannot- Adar will not heed anyone when it comes to his children. I have learnt this lesson before, and it is one you must learn also.”

 

It is as though a dam breaks inside of him. Suddenly hot tears are welling up in his eyes, and his _fae_ flies against his chest, rises up in his throat. “But it isn’t fair!” He gives in and wails, “it isn’t fair that I must be locked up like some elfling- when everyone else is fighting the Shadow and helping _Eryn Galen_!”

 

“Legolas” Lhosben says; his voice has lost its bite, and is as hollow as he feels. “I cannot help you with this. My hands are as tied as yours. You must wait.”

 

“Wait for what?” He doesn’t want to wait- he wants to run, to run and never look back, to feel _anor_ on his face and walk among the trees of his home and-

 

“Lhosben? Laeslas? Is everyone well? Goheno nin, but I heard shouting.” The soft voice of Emlinel breaks through his rushing thoughts; The scholar and wife of Lhosben stands by the doorway to her husband’s study, her eyes wide and full of concern.

Her eyes travel first to his brother, and then to Legolas. “ _Tithen pen_?” She says slowly, noting his expression, “Laeslas? Are you well?”

 

For a moment he cannot respond; all he can hear is his own ragged breathing and a prickling sensation behind his eyes _that are not tears- no I won’t cry- I am not an elfling_ -

 

“Emlinel, _meleth_ , it is nothing.” Lhosben says at last, when Legolas makes no sound. His brother’s voice is quiet, defeated, and even in the sun-lit study he appears tired, worn down. “Legolas and I were just discussing..today’s events.”

 

_And why I must wait until I can do anything of my own._ “Don’t worry, Emlinel, I am leaving now.” The words leave him throat in an embarrassing croak, and his feet feel as heavy as if they had boulders strapped to them. Legolas looks up at the shadowed face of his brother and finds it weary, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “Farewell, Lhosben.”

 

“Legolas,” Lhosben calls quietly, pleadingly. It is gentle enough that it tugs at his _fae_ , makes him pause. “Do not go. We- I cannot go against Adar.”

 

“No one can,” Legolas chokes out, even though the words bring him no comfort. They fall around him like a stone wall, trapping him inside, no matter how he slams against their surface. “He is the King.”

 

Rushing out of the chamber, past Emlinel’s wide, worried eyes, he finds no relief in the _slap-slap-slap_ of his feet on the stone floor, nor in the way those frustrated tears finally break their banks and slide down his cheeks.

 

Humiliation burns in his throat as he turns the corner. _I say I am not an elfling, yet I cry like one. A true warrior would not cry-_

 

Blinded by tears, he does not see the figure walking up the steps until he slams full-pelt into their stomach. The air is forcibly pushed out of him in a rush of air, but he can still hear the irritated words of the unfortunate _edhel_ he has run into.

 

“ _Yrch’s_ teeth, watch where you’re-! Oh.” Hands snake around him, catch him before he hits the cold stone floor. “Prince Legolas?”

 

“Let me go!” Legolas struggles, writhes in the unfamiliar grasp. “Let- let me-” His breathing rasps against his ears- fills his mind- _let me go, let me go_!

 

“Prince Legolas? _Sidh_ , it is Belathon. Here-” A hand, cool and calloused, grasps his jaw and tilts his head back. Legolas finds himself staring up through his tears into bright, silver eyes. It is indeed Belathon who holds him, who has stopped him from falling ungracefully to the ground.

 

Humiliation makes his head roar. “ _G-Goheno nin, hir nin_ Belathon. I-I-” to his horror, the tears he has been desperately trying to fight back do not stop. But what is worse is that twisted little sobs that shake their way from his throat. His _fae_ rushes against his chest, squeezes painfully in humiliation.

 

“ _Ai_ , no, child, do not apologise.” Belathon does not release him, but instead slides down to the cold stone floor. He pulls Legolas down with him, calloused hands firm on his shoulders.

 

Legolas stiffens, tries to pull away, but the Silvan’s grip is strong and the weight of his _fae_ is too much; it feels like a cup spilling over, splashing liquid everywhere, and he crumbles, buries his face into his hands and _cries_ -

 

“Here now, do not cry so. It is well, _sidh_ , you are safe, _sidh_.” The touch is unwanted, unfamiliar, even if the hands let him cry, and he twists away because he is crying in front of one of Aeglostor’s friends, and more than that a _warrior_ -

 

But then, peace begins to trickle up into his chest, brushing against his writhing _fae_ and slowly, slowly, the tears dry up and stop. With a loud sniff, Legolas lifts his damp face from his hands, wipes his nose.

 

Belathon gazes down at him, close enough that their knees brush. Against the gloom of the corridor, his eyes are the silver of mithril. “Now, don’t apologise.” The Silvan speaks before Legolas can blurt out an apology. “It is I who should in fact offer my apologies, for I should have heard you rushing down the corridor, or at least stepped out of the way.”

 

“N-No,” Legolas croaks, and even though his _fae_ still aches and tears threaten to spill down, he manages a watery smile. “It is I, I should have looked up also-”

 

The dark-haired _ellon’s_ laugh cuts him off. “Ah! Alright- we are both of us at fault, then.”

 

In response Legolas tries to smile again, but the banks of his eyes overflow, and tears trickle down his cheeks. “Oh!” Angrily, he swipes at his face, sniffs loudly again. “ _G-Goheno_ -”

 

“Hey!” A hand grasps his wrist and squeezes until the touch is almost painful; underneath the long fingers, his skin blanches white. “What did I just say? Don’t apologise to me, little prince.”

 

Legolas gazes up into that smooth, intense face and nods. “Al-Alright.”

 

“Legolas?” The shocked voice and hurried footsteps of Lhosben makes both _edhil_ jump and Legolas hastily lifts his gaze from the _ellon_ in front of him; his brother storms down the corridor with alarm painted all across his face. Warily, the dark eyes flicker between Legolas and Belathon- Belathon who still has a hand on his wrist- and grow shadowed.

 

“What is this?”

 

“Ah, Crown Prince Lhosben.” With one last firm squeeze, Belathon releases Legolas’ wrist and rises, sketching a rough bow. “ _Goheno nin_ , I did not mean to keep you waiting, only- well, I ran into your  _tithen muindor_ , who was quite upset.”

 

Lhosben looks down at Legolas, at his watery eyes and red nose. “I gathered such. Legolas-” his brother’s voice falters, and he glances at Belathon quickly, before returning his gaze to him. “I did not want our conversation to end as it did.”

 

Realising how he must look, sprawled on the floor with tears soaking the sleeves of his tunic, Legolas scrambles to his feet. “It is- it is no matter, truly.” The words are hollow and he can hardly find the strength to look at his brother. Tentatively, he sneaks a glance at Belathon, and finds the politician to be smiling gently at him. Peace slides into his _fae_.

 

Lhosben says nothing, only looks at him. Clumsily, there is the unexpected brush of his brother’s mind against him, the edges jagged with concern and worry, but Legolas draws away. _No, no, leave me be._

 

“If, if it is alright by you,” he says, ignoring the way his breath catches, “I will return to my chambers.” 

 

His older brother pauses, and then nods slowly. “Very well. I only-” his words falter, and then abruptly he straightens up and squares his shoulders. Against the lamp-lit corridor, the once-warm figure has a silhouette of stone; untouchable and unreadable. “Our father the King expects us at dinner.”

 

Legolas nods and goes to turn towards his chambers, only to have a firm hand catch him by the crook of his elbow. Belathon holds him, and his eyes are unexpectedly intense. They stare as though they see right down to his very _fae_. Like he is only a small leaf tossed in a mighty storm, and he can do nothing but wait for the storm to pass.

 

“I hope we meet again, Prince Legolas, and in happier circumstances.”

 

The prickle of his skin indicates that his brother is attempting to draw his eyes away from Belathon, but Legolas avoids the burning gaze and summons up a wobbly smile. Of all the people today, this _ellon_ and his words have proven to be the most kind. “I-I hope so too, Lord Belathon.”

 

Lhosben abruptly clears his throat. “Now, Lord Belathon, if you would but let my brother go, I shall walk you to my private study to discuss today’s events.”

 

Looking as he is, Legolas watches as Belathon’s demeanour changes; his body stiffens like dried wood under a harsh sun. “Forgive me, my prince” the Silvan says, yet there is no apology in his voice, “but I was only trying to offer your brother some comfort. He was alone and quite upset.”

 

“I am well aware,” Lhosben says, and Legolas tears his gaze away and looks at him in alarm. The normally smooth voice of his brother has dropped to one of ice, and his full mouth is pressed into an ugly line. “But the Prince has many of those familiar to him who may comfort him. It is not proper for him to seek refuge in the arms of a stranger.”

 

Legolas stares at his brother in dismay- what is wrong with Lhosben? Why would his normally calm brother speak so rudely of a well-respected _ellon_? “Belathon is no stranger, Lhosben” he insists, unease rising in him at the looks of tension passing between the two _ellyn_. “He is-”

 

Lhosben fixes him with a stare that is unexpectedly sharp. “Were you not returning to your chambers, Legolas?”

 

Legolas’ stomach sinks to his toes. “I-”

 

“Now, Prince Legolas, do not worry over your brother’s words.” Belathon gives him a sharp smile, his eyes gleaming in the torch-light like the shifting scales of an eel. “Your brother means well by telling you not to trust any random stranger who passes our Halls.”

 

The _ellon_ glances at Lhosben and his sharp face hardens, jaw muscles flexing. “I have only heard that it is treason here if I let any son of Thranduil go uncomforted or unaided. Am I true?”

 

Lhosben holds himself very still, as he did so earlier in the council-room when faced with Belathon and his passionate words. “You should ask my father the King.”

 

The Silvan laughs in reply, but all the warmth from earlier is gone; Legolas hears the snap of ice in his voice. “Very well, my lord. I shall do so.”

 

“Go now, Legolas” Lhosben says, and his eyes do not leave the shadowed form of Belathon. “And remember- our royal father expects us at dinner this eve.”

 

He does not understand what travels between the two _ellyn_ , but he knows well enough the sound of a command from the Crown Prince. With one last look at Belathon, he turns and quietly retreats back down the corridor, but not before glancing once more behind him.

 

Belathon and Lhosben remain standing in the corridor, yet all politeness has dropped. Their _fae_ burn and twist under their skin, as though their _rhaws_ have been lit by the torches around them. Neither one smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin: 
> 
> Ellon/Elleth- male elf/female elf
> 
> Fae/Rhaw- Sindarin words for spirit/body 
> 
> Goheno nin- formal word for 'my apologies'
> 
> Hir nin- my lord
> 
> Sidh- peace
> 
> Muindor/tithen muindor- brother/little brother
> 
> Tithen pen- little one 
> 
> Edhel/Edhil- elf/elves
> 
> P.S Comments are just as appreciated as Kudos!
> 
> P.P.S If there are any Tolkienites out there, please feel free to correct my Sindarin- I need all the help I can get!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Thranduil makes his first proper appearance, Legolas is frustrated, and we meet more of his family.

Dinner that eve is quiet and full of unspoken words. With both Annith and Aeglostor away on guard patrol, it is only Legolas, a pale yet recovered Faervel, Lhosben and his own wife and son who sit and eat with the King. 

 

Ada has slipped from his silk robes and crown to a simple tunic of green and gold, and eats slowly, taking his time to inquire as to the day’s progression of each member of his family. He does not show any sign of weariness, but Legolas can sense the pain of his old wounds flaring within their bond, the exhaustion pressing him down.

 

Legolas, under the strict gaze of his aunt, picks reluctantly at his food. The earlier words of Lhosben dig at his skin and leave him feeling neither sated nor hungry. _I know that I am young,_ he thinks _, but why does my every suggestion have to be met with suspicion and refusal?_    

 

“And you, Laeslas? How was your day?” Ada’s voice draws him from his morose thoughts. Looking up, he finds his father’s grey gaze, patient and steady, on him. 

 

“My day?” He swallows down a mouthful of beans and lettuce. Being autumn, venison is scarce, and the entire Realm has to make do with vegetables or salted meats. “It was..busy. Tutor Badhron taught me on the history of the Sindar.” 

 

Lhosben turns to murmur at his son, Emlinel taking a sip of wine.

 

Ada smiles. “And what did you think of the Council?”

 

He takes a breath; the only thing that comes to mind is the silver-eyed Belathon, and his strangely stirring words. “Aeglostor’s friend Belathon gave a great speech.”

 

Almost immediately the room grows still. Lhosben looks away from his son to shoot Legolas what is very close to a look of disapproval. 

 

Ada’s smile has disappeared, but he blinks slowly at Legolas, tilts his head. One white hand extends, caresses the goblet in front of him. “A powerful speech it was. While great is not a word I would have used, the _ellon_ left the Council with much to consider.” 

 

Lhosbend, the bright-haired son of Emlinel and Lhosben, looks over at the King. “What word would you use, _daer-adar_?” 

 

In one fluid movement, Ada brings the goblet to his lips, sips, and smiles. “Perhaps…young.”

 

Emlinel smiles behind her goblet, but Lhosben gives a shake of his head. “I do not think our youngest should have attended such a rousing discussion…”

 

Irritation makes Legolas clench his teeth. Why does his brother continue to act like he knows best? 

 

Lhosbend groans loudly before Legolas can snap at his older brother. “Ada please! We are part of the royal family, therefore shouldn’t we have a right to know what goes on in our own Kingdom?”

 

The King nods, just the barest incline of his golden head. “I tend to agree with my _daer_ - _ion_. But what of you, Laeslas? Do you take interest in the goings on of my council?”

 

Glancing up, Legolas finds himself caught in that ancient gaze. Forcing down the irritation at his older brother, lest Ada uncover his irritation and the reasons for it, he manages a nod. “Yes, I do. I think what Belathon said was very interesting.”

 

“Interesting?” Faervel snorts beside him; the colour has returned to her cheeks at last, and her voice is heavy with disapproval. “More like radical. That _ellon_ doesn’t take into consideration what he speaks of." 

 

Something close to irritation flickers across Ada’s face. “Come, Faervel, let us leave berating behind us this eve. I wish to enjoy my dinner.”

 

Faervel shoots the King a sour look, before pointedly picking up her cutlery and resumes eating. Silence falls for a few uncomfortable minutes, before Lhosbend again raises his head. 

 

“What goes on in the Council, _daer-adar_? Have you come to a conclusion as to what to do?” 

 

Kings do not sigh, but Legolas thinks that Ada sometimes wishes to. “No, we have not.” He says heavily. His eyes travel beyond them, and soften. “I instead wish to look to our upcoming _Mereth-en-Giliath_.” 

 

Emlinel smiles, pushing back a strand of auburn hair which has escaped from its braid. “I have heard that Cook Maeasson is preparing quite a feast for the Realm. Fresh venison and Dorwinion for all, I am informed.” 

 

Her son groans theatrically, placing a wide hand on his stomach. “Nana, don’t! I am desperate for a piece of real meat..”

 

“As am I,” Faervel interjects, even as she swallows her last mouthful. “I am equally as sick and tired of these overdone vegetables.”

 

“Now now,” says Lhosben, though a smile twitches at his lips. “We must be grateful for what _Ivon_ gives us..”

 

“Husband,” Emlinel turns to Lhosben, her eyes glittering. “How would you like the rest of my beans and lettuce? I am all of a sudden quite full.”

 

Lhosben looks as though he has sucked on a sour lemon, but dutifully takes his wife’s plate. He less dutifully eats one single bean, before putting the plate to the side. 

 

“And now you all must wait several _days_  for such luxuries,” Ada says, but a smile rises in his eyes as they all groan and complain.

 

Legolas tries to summon a smile, but it feels empty on his face. Both Belathon and Lhosben’s earlier words have shaken him, and he cannot find any joy in the playful banter of his family. 

 

Dinner finishes quickly after that; Legolas listens as the Song of the forest quiets into evening with the setting of _anor_ , settling into a gentle whisper of melody. Lhosben stays on to speak quietly with Ada; Legolas hears whispers of Belathon and of the council, but he cannot bring himself to listen in. His mind is centered around the day's arguments, the way his brother had refused to even heed his words.  

 

“Come, nephew, let us retire to bed. We have both had a long day.” Faervel gives him a look that tells him she isn’t oblivious to his mood. 

 

But Ada looks up from where he still sits by the table, and extends a white hand. “Laeslas, will you come here?”

 

Unsure, Legolas shoots a glance at his aunt. 

 

“Go!” She mouthes, and shoos him towards his father. 

 

Hesitant, Legolas makes his way towards the figure painted in red and gold by the dying light of _anor_. “Yes, Ada?” 

 

Up close, Ada gazes at him with unreadable grey eyes. Being this close to his father, Legolas’ _fae_ sings with welcome as the Song of his father calls to him. It is full of warmth, love, and he doesn't hesitate to press close. Slowly, some of the ache within his chest softens, and he is no longer so full of hurt. 

 

“Is all well? You were quiet at dinner.” One long-fingered hand gently takes his own hand, the touch as light as newly unfurled leaves. Nevertheless, Legolas is swallowed up in his father’s grip. 

 

“I am well,” he replies as those ancient eyes sweep over him. “I am just-” _do I tell him what happened today? Do I believe what Lhosben said- that Ada does not heed anyone- that I won’t be allowed to train for decades more?_

 

Ada raises one dark eyebrow, but does not speak. He waits. 

 

Legolas pauses. Something tells him to wait just as his father does; a strange sensation which tugs at his chest. “I am just tired,” he finishes, and offers a smile.

 

“Do not worry over the words of Belathon, Laeslas.” Ada says quietly, and his eyes warm as stones under sun. “They are of no consequence to you.” 

 

_No consequence?_ He does not understand.  How can such powerful words be ignored? Even now- even amongst his family, he can still feel the heat of Belathon’s gaze, the words he shouted ringing in his bones.

 

A knock comes at the door, startling all. 

 

“ _Hir nin_?” A guard peers in, and even in the dying light his face flushes. “Oh, _goheno nin, hir nin_. I did not mean to interrupt your dinner-”

 

Ada releases Legolas’ hand, giving the tiniest of sighs. “No, it is well, Tervon. We are all finished. What is it?” 

 

“It is Lords Arodon and Thannor and Lady Elegessil, _hir nin_. They await your council.”

 

“Ah, yes. Send them in to my private study; I shall meet them there.” In a ripple of silks, Ada rises. Legolas watches him as he does, biting back a sigh.  He so rarely gets to spend time with his father, and even when he does they are quickly interrupted by a lord or lady demanding some request or another.

 

Ada looks down to him, and it seems that he understands what Legolas thinks. “The work of a King is never done, I am afraid, not even when I wish it to be.”

 

“Will I-” the words fall from him unexpectedly, making both he and Ada pause. His voice grows quiet. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

 

Tenderly, Ada raises one hand to his cheek. “I will make time for you where I can, Laeslas.”

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a short one, only because I've been doing some serious editing in order to make the other two chapters more presentable. But expect more chapters soon! 
> 
> As always, comments are greatly appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein a feast occurs, Legolas mopes, and a carrot causes havoc.

“To you, Thranduil Elvenking, Wielder of The Staff of _Eryn Galen_ and Protector of this Realm, we greet you and say welcome!”

 

The lights which nestle far above them glitter down on the feast and illuminate those within _Ivon’s Hall_. It is like looking upon a scattering of autumn leaves; all varied colours of brown, gold, red and orange reflect under the lamp-lights and the dozens of sleek elven heads bob and sway as flowers in a strong breeze. The Hall is warm with elven magic and the assortments of fresh meat and vegetables, but most of those seated pay little attention to the food and instead speak with their neighbour or those on opposite tables. 

 

Ada, dressed in a fine robe of white and green with a crown of autumn leaves upon his head, rises from the High Table. The hall falls silent as he inclines his head towards the _ellon_ who greets him. 

 

“My thanks to you, and to all who helped prepare this feast for our people.” As always, his voice travels through the hall, until even Legolas feels as though his father speaks directly to him. "My only wish for tonight is that you all find the Dorwinion to your liking, and the venison plentiful upon your plate.” 

 

Laughter runs through the crowded tables like water past rock, and his father sits in a rustle of fabric. The cue to begin feasting has been given- all reach for the platters upon platters of food before them eagerly. 

 

All, that is, except for Legolas. 

 

Faervel, who sits beside Legolas a few seats down from the King, leans in to murmur into his ear. “Come, Laeslas, it is time to feast and make merry! Chin up, dear heart.”

 

Legolas draws his eyes up from the tablecloth he has been intently studying. The argument of hours earlier still rings in his ears, the vision of narrowed grey eyes and a furious voice flashing continually before his eyes. 

 

“I am not hungry, Faervel” he whispers in return. A powerful mix of anger and hurt burns in his throat, and leaves his stomach full of jagged rocks. The last thing he can imagine is picking up a spoon and eating. 

 

“Well,” his aunt says, and a hint of _mithril_ enters her voice, “you must. Maeasson and all the cooks have gone to such trouble to prepare this, and you must show them your gratitude by eating. It does not matter how miserable you are.” 

 

“I cannot eat.” He returns quickly, picks at a thin green thread which has escaped the finely woven cloth. “I don’t think I can.”

 

Faervel makes a noise deep in her throat, one that causes the hairs on his neck to rise. His Aunt is many things, but a waster of food she is not, and when riled her temper is fierce. 

 

“Legolas Thranduilion,” she growls, “pick up your plate, and pile it with food.”

 

Legolas picks up his plate, and piles it with food.

 

“Now, eat at least a mouthful of each.” 

 

Reluctantly, Legolas stabs a piece of venison, cuts it, and chews. He almost gives in to the urge to chew the food with his mouth open, just to irritate his aunt, but quickly thinks better of it. It does not matter that the meat is dripping in sauce and herbs; it is dry and tasteless in his mouth. 

 

Faervel seems satisfied with this. “You keep eating while I do my job and make stimulating conversation with my neighbours.” 

 

And so his aunt turns her head and engages an _ellon_ beside her in enthusiastic conversation about the quality of Dorwinion they have been provided with. 

 

Something sharp unexpectedly prods him in the back. 

 

“Ow!” He yelps, turns to look for the culprit. A few seats down, his sister Annith, her gown of red and white already mussed and wrinkled, smirks at him.

 

Newly returned from her garrison and relieved of her duties as Captain of the Guard for several evenings, Annith is a welcome face amongst the sea of _edhil_. Clever dark eyes twinkle in an angular, expressive face much like their father’s, and her curly dark hair bounces as she leans over to him. 

 

“Not hungry Laeslas?” With an ungracious creak, she rocks back on the heel of her seat to query him around the bulk of Lhosbend. Rarely does he see his sister, but when he does, she always finds a way of making sure that it is a time to be remembered. 

 

This time, Legolas is in no mood to respond to her jests. He shrugs. “Not really.”

 

His sister frowns; in the lamp-light her dark eyes shine as smooth river stones. “But it’s venison. And wine. The best combination of food and drink to be invented in these Halls.”

 

Again, he shrugs. “I’m just not really hungry, ‘Nith.”

 

“What?” Annith narrows her dark eyes at him. “Did Faervel get angry and box your ears?”

 

“What?” He wrinkles his nose. “No!”

 

“Did you fall and scrape your knee?”

 

“Annith I’m not an elfling!” 

 

“Sure, _Laes_ las” she drawls. 

 

A blush rises to Legolas’ cheeks. “I’m _fine_ , Annith, truly.”

 

Unfortunately for him, Annith knows when he is lying. She only arches two spectacularly dark eyebrows, and waits. 

 

“…it’s only- I tried to ask Ada about training.”

 

“Again?” Lhosbend lifts his head from his plate and grunts around a mouthful of venison. “ _Ivon’s pearly teeth_ , Laeslas, you’ll make _daer-adar_ go grey!”

 

“I’m not trying to!” Legolas protests. “I just…”

 

“…I just wanted to see if Adar has changed his mind even a little, despite knowing that he doesn’t heed _anyone_ when it comes to his children, even his own children” Annith finishes for him, not refraining from rolling her eyes. 

 

Legolas drops his gaze to the tablecloth, hurt at his sister’s lack of sympathy. _Why does everyone keep telling me that?_

 

Abruptly, the memory of Ada’s words rushes back to him. 

 

_Legolas had sought his father out a few hours before the feast, and found him alone in his private chambers. Just as promised, Ada had managed to find time for him, and more than that, he did not look burdened down with worries of the council or of the state of Eryn Galen. In fact, the clear grey eyes had been soft and welcoming and his smile warm._

 

_But how quickly that look of affection, of warmth, had changed! No sooner had he proposed his idea, then Ada had grown still like he was an animal caught in the sudden catch of a predator’s claws. All the warmth in the room, and in his eyes, had vanished as though someone had blown out a lamp._

 

_“No,” Ada had said, and the word rang in his head, blasted away the closely-kept hope which bubbled in his fae. “No, Laeslas. You are too young to train. You must wait your turn.”_

 

Lhosbend nudges him gently in the side, which is to say that he only drives the wind from Legolas’ lungs. “Come on, _uncle_ , cheer up! We have the whole night ahead of us, and a whole lot of venison and Dorwinion too.”

 

Annith groans. “Please, don’t call him that. It sounds unnatural.”

 

“What, dearest _aunt_ , can’t I call our little _laes_ by his true name?”

 

“Oh, _daro_ , please” Legolas buries his face in his hands, but still feels a smile creep up onto his lips. The frustration at his sister fades as though it were a mere breath of wind. “You are disrupting the feast.”

 

“I am not,” Annith says, affronted, while Lhosbend just shrugs. 

 

“Can you three,” Faervel turns slowly from where she has been talking to her neighbour and bares her teeth in a terrifying mask of a smile, “please stop chattering like a nest of bluebirds and just _eat_?”

 

“My sincerest apologies, Lady Faervel.” Lhosbend says smoothly in a voice that sounds exactly like his father. “But it was our Princess Annith making all the noise.”

 

Behind him Annith freezes. 

 

Faervel turns immediately to his sister and says in a voice heavy with despair, “Annith, please. You are of royal blood- would you at least act like it?”

 

His sister nods, a slow tilt of her head that makes him think- with a small flare of pain- of their father. “Of course, Faervel.” 

 

Legolas can feel the sudden roar of his sister’s surprise and irritation shift to a flare of smug amusement. It tickles at their bond, and for one moment his sister lets him peer into what she sees. Of all things, a stick of carrot dangles between her fingers, and then with carefully precision, drops down the pants of Lhosbend. 

 

The heaviness he has been carrying within him throughout the feast eases as Legolas tries desperately to stifle a smile. 

 

His aunt’s gaze narrows in on him like a hawk’s. “Something amusing you at last, Laeslas?” 

 

“N-No” he chokes out, shoving at the bond he shares with his sister. _Stop it!_

 

Laughingly, his sister closes their bond just as she pulls away from Lhosbend. 

 

His aunt’s mouth tightens. “Very well. Remember, you are members of our royal family, and are expected to act as such!” She turns back to her conversation right as Legolas and Lhosbend sit back with sighs of relief. 

 

Only for Lhosbend’s eyes to bulge as the muffled sound of a wet _snap_ reaches their ears. Accompanying this less-than-pleasant sound is Lhosbend’s yelp, loud enough to reach every ear within the hall. 

 

“What in- _son of a Orch_!”

 

Half of the High Table falls silent at the exclamation. No- as Legolas’ ears burn, he is sure that _half of_ _Ivon’s_ _Hall_ falls silent. 

 

Several seats down, Emlinel and Lhosben look up from their meals, horror-struck. 

 

“Lhosbend! “What on- _what is going on_?” Emlinel hisses furiously, her face turning from white to red in a matter of breaths. The colour only spreads as she looks around and sees that many _edhil_ are looking up curiously from their own plates; some are even beginning to laugh! 

 

Behind the mortified figure of Lhosbend, Annith is hysterically laughing into her napkin. Legolas can only stare, completely horrified. _I will not laugh I will not laugh I will not laugh-_

 

“N-Nothing, naneth.” Lhosbend manages to stutter out. His cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I just- dropped a goblet on my foot?”

 

The look on Emlinel’s face promises that she does not believe a word her _ion_ breathes. 

 

But what is worse- what is _even more worse_ is that Ada has looked up from his own conversation with the stuffy Lord Thannor, and his eyebrows reach nearly to his hairline. 

 

“Is all well?” The King asks. 

 

“My-My Lord,” Lhosbend’s cheeks turn as deep a red as the leaves of autumn. “It- it is nothing. I only-”

 

“Dropped a goblet on your foot?” Ada says smoothly, his face utterly blank. His eyes drift from the crimson face of his _daer-ion_ to Legolas, and then to Annith, who is bent over in an effort to hide her laughter. “How…unfortunate.”

 

“Elflings will be elflings, _hir nin_ ” someone calls from the tables below. 

 

For a terrifying moment there is a beat of silence. And then abruptly, horrifyingly, the entire room bursts into laughter.That is to say, all but the High Table burst into laughter. 

 

And Lhosbend is left to sit in the middle of it all, his cheeks stained wine-red with humiliation and his eyes glowering down at the table.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading; this one was definitely a fun one to write! Next up is when the tension begins to grow. 
> 
> Sindarin: 
> 
> Ivon- Sindarin for Yavanna, one of the Maia and the creator of earth, plants, ents and maybe hobbits. 
> 
> Ellon/Elleth- male/female Elf
> 
> Fae- spirit 
> 
> Edhel/Edhil- Elf/Elves
> 
> Ion- son
> 
> Naneth/Nana- mother/mum
> 
> Daer-ion- Grandson


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the arrogant Prince Aeglostor arrives, Legolas speaks to an unexpected guest, and Thranduil pines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have decided to give you all a list of Thranduil's family, just to make the names more familiar to you (and hopefully easier to remember). 
> 
> The Royal Family: Thranduil Oropherion- King of Eryn Galen and widower 
> 
> Nidhel- deceased Queen of Eryn Galen and former Captain of the King's Guard; has a sister- Faervel- who is the nurse/caretaker to Legolas. 
> 
> Lhosben- The Crown Prince and heir to Eryn Galen- 2000 years old, and with a family of his own; his Silvan wife, Emlinel who is a well-renowned scholar and favourite of King Thranduil, and his son, Lhosbend
> 
> Aeglostor- second Prince of Eryn Galen and talented archer on the King's patrols; estranged from the Royal Family and roughly 1,500 years old 
> 
> Annith- Princess of Eryn Galen and only daughter to Thranduil- current Captain of the King's Guard. Roughly 1000 years old 
> 
> Legolas- youngest Prince of Eryn Galen and child of Thranduil and Nidhel- 57 years old.

By the time most of those within the Hall has finished with their plate and have begun conversing, the second Prince of _Eryn Galen_ finally decides to make his entrance. 

 

Legolas, in an odd reversal of roles, tries now to cheer up his nephew. It does not go well. Lhosbend picks silently at his food, no doubt well aware of the trouble he will face upon returning to his chambers. 

 

“C’mon, Lhosbend," he nudges the fair-haired _ellon_. "I’m sure Lhosben will not ban you from the training grounds for too long…”

 

“Oh, he will.” Lhosbend mutters angrily. “Always I try to be his perfect son, and now look! I sit on a carrot, and he disowns me for three centuries.”

 

Legolas tries to stifle the bubble of laughter which rises in his throat. “I-I don’t think he has disowned you, Lhos.”

 

Beside their miserable nephew, Annith’s dark gaze widen in surprise and she tugs impatiently at the silk sleeve of his tunic. “ _Ai_ , Laeslas, look who has finally decided to leave his garrison.”

 

There comes a banging of a staff on the ground, and to the left of them the Lady Elegessil rises hurriedly from the table. Her lips are stained red with wine, and she dabs at them hastily, caught off-guard. “Announcing Prince Aeglostor, He Who-”

 

From across the hall, Aeglostor waves a hand, silencing the _singyll_. He wears only a simple grey tunic and muddy boots, but as always does not seem to care for how dishevelled he is compared to the entire hall and its autumn colours. “No, Lady, please. Take a seat. I am only here for the Dorwinion.” 

 

Laughter trickles through the chamber, faces turning to catch a glimpse of their prince. 

 

“Oh, sweet Eru,” Faervel hisses from beside Legolas. Her eyes are pinched with concern. 

 

Legolas watches, surprise licking at his _fae_ , as the broad-shouldered figure of his older brother strides easily down the hall to the High Table. He hasn’t seen his brother for many seasons! 

 

All watch and wait as Aeglostor stops before the King, and sketches a loose bow. From where he sits, Legolas thinks he catches a glimpse of his brother’s gleaming eyes, but he cannot be sure. 

 

Ada unexpectedly rises from his seat, and in the glittering lights he seems to be adorned with stars. “ _Ion nin_ ,” he says, though his voice remains cool as though he were addressing the Council. There is not even a hint of surprise on his face at the surprising appearance of the prince. “ _Gi nathlam hí_.” 

 

“ _Le fael, Aran nin_.” Aeglostor returns with ease. Only his shoulders are stiff; as though he waits to be reprimanded. “I am glad I have not missed all of the Dorwinion.” 

 

“There is plenty here, _muindor_ ,” Annith calls, and with a nod to an _ellon_ draws over another seat. “Move over, you two!” She urges to Legolas and Lhosbend. 

 

Aeglostor sketches one last bow to Ada before turning and making his way to where Annith has drawn a seat. “Ah, _muinthel_ , how good it is to see you!” 

 

His glittering eyes are cold as they brush over Legolas. “And Laeslas too! They really have brought out everyone, haven’t they?”

 

Annith gives their brother a sharp look as he, with exaggerated care, takes a seat beside her. “Unfortunately.”

 

Legolas smiles hesitantly past the bulk of Lhosbend. “It is good to see you.”

 

Aeglostor glances over him once. “I cannot say the same, unfortunately. I was dragged here by Riressil” he nods down towards a table, where Legolas spies a red-haired _elleth_ chatting animatedly to her neighbour. 

Annith rolls her eyes. “Yes, I remember her. The one with a tongue like a viper.”

 

Aeglostor reaches for a half-filled goblet, takes a swig and swallows loudly. “Ah, there is nothing better than a good cup of Dorwinion. Now,” he burps, “tell me of the goings on within dear Adar’s council. I heard a rumour that Belathon outspoke every member there.”

 

“You heard true,” Lhosbend says. “He left the council in uproar.”

 

“Oh, I can imagine.” Aeglostor says easily, “if he spoke about opening up trade and clearing that damned Southern border-”

 

“Aeglostor,” Faervel turns so swiftly that Legolas nearly jumps. “We do not swear while at feasts, nor do we burp.”

 

“My deepest apologies, Aunt.” Aeglostor places a hand on his chest mockingly. “I did not know I was still an elfling.” 

 

A worm of discomfort wriggles in Legolas’ chest. _Why does he have to be so_ rude _? And to Faervel?_

 

Faervel only narrows her eyes. “You are not one in age, perhaps, but your manners are of one.”

 

“You wound me, dear Aunt, truly!” 

 

The dark-haired _elleth_ gives Aeglostor a look of complete disapproval, before stiffly turning her back. 

 

“Now that is one _elleth_ I have not missed while away.” Aeglostor says in an undertone. “She hasn’t softened at all, has she?” He eyes the back of Faervel, and the angular face unexpectedly hardens. 

 

Something squeezes in Legolas’ chest. He doesn’t like the way Aeglostor looks at his aunt. “ _Muindor_ ” he says quickly, and those stormy eyes turn on him. “Tell me of training.” 

 

Aeglostor rolls his eyes. “Are you still trapped in that childish dream, Laeslas? Hasn’t Adar given you the talk yet?”

 

_“No, Laeslas. You are too young to train. You must wait your turn.”_

 

“He-he has.” Legolas admits, and glances at Annith. Her dark eyes flicker from Aeglostor and then to him, but she says nothing. “But he will have to say yes eventually.”

 

The narrowed lips twist up into a sharp smile, one that Legolas knows he could easily hurt himself on. “Once you are two hundred summers, yes, he will. Now quit bothering me; I have better things to entertain myself with.”

 

Legolas watches, hurt burning at his throat, as his brother then turns to Annith and launches into an impressive conversation about the durability of eagle feather fletching over that of a hawk fletching. 

 

“Lhosbend-” he turns to the broad _ellon_ , desperate to pretend that his brother’s words don’t hurt. Only, Lhosbend has spotted a friend amongst the crowd of tables, and with a quick “save my seat,” heads over to join them. And Legolas is left alone. 

 

“Is this seat taken?” A familiar voice asks.

 

Looking up in surprise, Legolas finds himself staring straight into silver eyes. “Belathon?” 

 

The tall Silvan stands behind him, dressed in a red and gold tunic. His mouth curls into a slow smile. “Hello, little prince. May I sit?”

 

“Oh-” Legolas glances briefly over to where the bulk of Lhosbend sits, now chatting happily with companions. _Manners_ , says Faervel, _you are a prince of this Realm!_ “Yes, of course.” 

 

“My thanks” the silver-eyed _ellon_ slides down beside him, and his eyes flicker to where Aeglostor sits. “I hope I do not intrude, little prince, but I could not help overhearing what your brother said.”

 

Legolas flushes, tries to push down the hurt that rises in him. “It- it’s nothing. Aeglostor…”

 

“Can be a real _yrch_ , am I correct?” Belathon finishes. His bright eyes grow serious. “It is not worth taking his words to heart, little prince. Your brother has a way of offending many _edhil_.” 

 

If it were any other, Legolas knows he would take offence at the description of his brother. But something in him softens at Belathon’s words, the glimmer of his eyes. “You were in the same patrol with him, weren’t you?” He says softly. “I think I remember my brother speaking of you.”

 

“That’s right,” Belathon agrees with a nod of his dark head. “We trained together as apprentices. Needless to say, I have had to nurse my own fair share of wounds, thanks to your brother’s sharp tongue.”

 

“It-” Legolas suddenly finds words building up on his tongue, waiting to fall. “It can be hard to ignore them, though. Not when he’s right.”

 

“About being too young?” The Silvan elf asks. His eyes are not soft, but his tone is gentle. 

 

Legolas nods. “Yes. No one- no one thinks of me as anything but an elfling. And I know- I know I am young,” he says hastily as Belathon’s eyes flicker. “But I want- I want to be seen as something _more_ than just a child to be hidden in the Nursery.”

 

At first, Belathon says nothing, and Legolas feels his toes curl in his boots. No doubt the Silvan elf will also see him as just an elfling, a child to be handed from tutor to Aunt. _How stupid I am to say all of that, to one of Aeglostor’s friends!_

 

“I understand,” the quiet voice makes him look up. Again, those silver eyes do not leave his, but burn into him, press down into his _fae_. “I truly do. It is hard, being restricted by something as simple as age. You are a prince of _Eryn Galen_ , and right now, she needs all of us to defend her from the Shadow.”

 

“But?” Legolas waits for those words. _But you are too young. You must wait. Wait wait wait wait-_

 

“But nothing,” Belathon says, and draws back. The air around him, the lights above, makes his eyes look as though they are jewels set in the pale circle of his face. “Look around you, little prince. All of these people, these _edhil_ , they depend on us to defend them. To honour their wishes. Age does not matter, not when you are in a position to create change- when you can help those most in need.” 

 

Though Belathon glances at the _edhil_ beneath them, Legolas can do nothing but stare at the Silvan next to him. His words strike him deep within his chest, makes his _fae_ ring. 

 

He can create change, even as an elfling. Even as the youngest prince of his people. He can _help_. “You speak truly?” Legolas breathes, and the dark-haired ellon turns to look at him. 

 

“Of course I do, little prince. Would a friend lie to you?”

 

Abruptly, there is a hand pressing on his shoulder. Legolas turns- and finds Faervel staring at him. At Belathon. 

 

“Lord Belathon? What do you do here, at the High Table?” Her eyes flash, and Legolas inhales sharply as her fingers dig into the soft flesh of his arm. _You hurt me, aunt, let go_ ; he tries to touch her mind through their bond, but she does not heed him. 

 

Belathon smiles, a strange twist of his lips that doesn’t resemble anything like how he’d smiled at Legolas before. “My Lady, I have come to visit the Prince Aeglostor.” 

 

Faervel’s gaze grows narrow. “Speak to the Prince Aeglostor if you wish; he could do with some of your… _bold_ …words, but leave my nephew out of it. He is too young for any sort of political discussion.”

 

“I am 57 summers, Faervel, not 30!” Legolas protests, frustration building in his chest. 

 

His aunt’s hostile gaze shifts to him, and he flinches as her grasp tightens. “That you may be, Laeslas, but you are still my charge and _will not speak rudely to your elders!_ ” 

 

“Please, Lady,” Belathon cuts in as Legolas’ eyes burn with tears of sheer frustration. “The young prince meant nothing by his words. He was only pointing out the truth.”

 

Faervel draws her head back, and her dark eyes flash with anger. “I did not know you speak for elflings also, Lord Belathon. You usually keep your words reserved for those who do not know the truth from the false.”

 

Belathon grows still, and for a long heartbeat he stares at the _elleth,_ his face as white as new snow. And then- his twilit eyes flicker to Legolas. “I will take my leave, Prince Legolas” he rises, and bows to him. “Tell your brother that I wish to speak to him, when you can.” With nary a look at Faervel, he slips back down into the crowded tables.

 

_No, don’t go_. Legolas wants to reach out and grasp the _ellon_ by the sleeve of his tunic. _Your words are true to me._

 

“That snake,” his aunt hisses as soon as Belathon sits down amongst the tables below. She releases Legolas’ arm; the flesh throbs from where her nails dug into him. “You don’t speak to him again, you hear?”

 

“Yes, Aunt.” Legolas agrees. Her anger is as meaningless to him as a storm against rock; nothing matters now, not when he knows someone understands him. Not when all he can hear is what Belathon said. 

 

_Age does not matter, not when you are in a position to create change, when you can help those most in need._

 

_Would a friend lie to you?_

 

_A friend_ , he thinks, and his _fae_ warms at the word. _I have a friend- someone who speaks to me as they would an equal!_

 

“Laeslas, look at me.” His aunt spares him the embarrassment of grasping him under the chin like she would if he were 20 years younger, but her words are strong enough that he is pulled away from the warmth that is spilling down into his _fae_. 

 

“What did he say to you?” Her dark eyes are no longer angry, but rather shadowed. Her mouth presses together as it does only when she is deeply worried. 

 

_My silly aunt_ , Legolas thinks with a burst of affection. _You worry too much, and all for nothing. Belathon is my friend._

 

“Nothing of importance,” he says instead. “Truly, aunt. He only- only mentioned what Aeglostor was like, when they used to train together.” And that is true, isn’t it? He isn’t lying, not really. 

 

Faervel sighs. “He shouldn’t encourage you, not about training.”

 

“He was only trying to be nice, Aunt.” Legolas says. While he knows he isn’t lying, the words sit heavily on his tongue. 

 

“Nice, hmph. That’ll be the _yen_.” His Aunt gives him one last look, before staring out into the bright hall and all the _edhil_ who gather there. “I do not trust him, and nor should you. That _ellon_ brings only trouble.”

 

There is the most minute pressing of a mind against his, and his _fae_ sings quietly. Legolas twitches, looks up. Beyond them, still seated beside his lords and ladies, Ada watches him. The twinkling lights catch on the rubies upon his fingers, and they wink at him like tiny red eyes. 

 

_Hello Ada_ , he greets. This time, there is no joy or welcome in his voice; the discussion of earlier hours still lingers between them, like a chasm that cannot be crossed. Ada seems to know this, as he knows everything, for at first his mind seems to retreat. 

 

But then, just as Legolas thinks their bond is closed, there comes again the brush of his father’s powerful mind, the leap of his _fae_. This time, his father’s touch is not gentle. There is the uncomfortable sensation of pulling as their bond is probed, and and his mind grows heavy, as though Ada is searching for something buried deep within him. 

 

_For what Belathon told me_ , he realises. _He wants to know what passed between us_. _He thinks I am still an elfling to be watched and fussed over._  

 

Ada’s gaze narrows, and the weight of his mind sinks deeper into their bond, sensing words- 

 

_No!_ His _fae_ trembles as Legolas pulls away. _No, Ada! Why must you always treat me as an elfing to be constantly watched? I am fine._

 

Beyond him, Ada’s eyes flash with surprise. But then, slowly- slowly, the broad mind retreats from his, and their bond closes. 

 

Legolas releases a breath he did not know he was holding. _I have done it_ , he realises. He has, for the first time, denied his father access to his mind. A lump forms in his stomach, seethes against him. It hadn’t been wrong of him to do that, had it?

 

But then, he realises that if Ada had of heard what had been said between him and Belathon, he wouldn’t have understood. He might have even grown angry that the Silvan had encouraged him.

 

_And the last thing Ada wants_ , Legolas thinks bitterly, _is for me to hope that I might train._  

 

All around him, his family continue on talking as though nothing has changed. Annith continues listening to their brother, but the rigid lines of her face do not soften, not even once. She looks as though she wishes she were anywhere else in the hall, and speaking to anyone other than their cold, calculating brother.

 

And their father? Ada’s gaze has lifted from him, and travelled onto the bright figure of Aeglostor. Those grey eyes do not leave until his brother shivers and glances about him as though he has heard someone calling his name. 

 

_Belathon’s words_ , Legolas decides, _they belong to me alone_. _Neither Annith nor Lhosben, nor Faervel, or even Ada would understand what has been said between us._

 

_Maybe- maybe there will come a time when I don’t have to hope, and what Belathon says will be true._ _But until then, isn’t it best that only I know?_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all liked it! 
> 
> Sindarin: Ellon/Elleth- male/female elf  
> Edhel/Edhil- Elf/Elves  
> Singyll- Herald  
> Ion nin- my son  
> Gi nathlam hí- You are welcome here  
> Le fael- You are generous  
> Aran nin- my King (just another less-than-subtle reminder that Thranduil is, to Aeglostor, only his King)  
> Muindor- brother   
> Muinthel- sister  
> Orch- Orc  
> Eryn Galen- Greenwood  
> Yen- a thousand years/a long time


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein a certain company of dwarves arrive, Legolas investigates, and Belathon is rebellious.

Legolas wakes to the Song of the Forest pulling insistently at his _fae_. His chamber is quiet, but outside he can hear the low murmur of voices and shuffle of feet upon stone. With a yawn, he sits up, rubs at his eyes. The glare of the morning light against his eyes turns his chamber white, until he blinks and finds everything settled. 

 

The feast had finished late, well past the 11th hour of night, and Legolas had managed to excuse himself to bed quickly. But even once in his bedchamber, he had found it hard to sleep. The bright lights of the feast still sparkled before his eyes, and Belathon’s words rang in his head. 

 

But what is now more pressing on his mind is the note. 

 

As he had been sleepily shrugging out of his clothes the night before, a small scrap of paper had fluttered to the stone floor, bumping against his toe. At first he had thought nothing of it, and had made to throw it away. Yet- something made him look down, realise that there was handwriting upon its creamy surface.

 

Aeglostor- meet us in the dungeons tomorrow around sun-high. We shall speak further there. B.

 

Belathon wanted to speak with his brother? Surprise had made his stomach churn, despite the waves of exhaustion pressing down on him. What business did Aeglostor have with Legolas’ friend? And in the dungeons of their Halls?

 

_Well_ , he had thought with a yawn, Belathon had wanted to speak to Aeglostor- and he must have accidentally left the note with Legolas instead of his brother. 

 

For a brief moment, he had considered taking the note straight to his older brother, if only to question him as to what it meant. But then- then he recalled the way Aeglostor had sneered down at him, had dismissed him, and something in him hardened. 

 

_I will go,_ he thinks now as he looks around his room. The light from the window seeps in sluggishly, hardly touching the stone floors, but does little to dampen the excitement he can feel building within him.  _I will go in place of Aeglostor, and speak with my friend. What business does Aeglostor have with Belathon, anyways?_

 

Glancing at the water clock beside his bed, he gives a little jolt of alarm. It is near the 9th hour of the morning- he has overslept!

 

“Faervel?” He calls as he shoves back his blankets and slides down off the bed. With autumn fully settled in amongst the forest and creeping into the Halls, the stones bite at his toes. “Faervel! Have I missed breakfast?” 

 

But now, his aunt does not appear through the adjoining door as she usually does when she hears him call. In fact, the voices outside go quiet, and no one answers him. 

 

_This is odd. Has everyone taken their breakfast to another room?_

 

Hastily, he skips over to his wardrobe and yanks on his favourite pair of deerskin shoes, blindly grabs a tunic, sheds his sleeping tunic and pulls the clean one over his head. He doesn’t bother with his messy braids- his mind is entirely focused on getting to breakfast, and then to Belathon. _Perhaps if I hurry, I will get there before Aeglostor asks me about Belathon-_

 

Only, when he goes to open the heavy wooden door, the handle does not move. “Um,” he pulls down again, waits for the handle to give way. “Hello?”

 

Still, the handle remains stiff under his touch. Surprise creeps into his stomach. It must have locked itself accidentally- their wooden doors are old, and have locked by themselves occasionally. Once Lhosben had managed to lock himself in his study for near upon a day, and had emerged red-faced and hoarse-voiced from all of his shouting. 

 

“Faervel!” He shouts, pulls down again and again on the handle. “I think my door has locked accidentally-”

 

An odd clanging sound, and shuffling of heavy feet reach his ears. “Oh, Prince Legolas, is that you?” The voice is distinctly muffled, and completely unfamiliar. 

 

“Yes? Who else would it be?” He replies. “Could you fetch a lock-smith or something, I think my door has locked-”

 

The muffled voice drifts through the wood. “I am sorry, Prince Legolas. But I am on orders of the King to keep the Palace under tight security.”

 

Tight security? What has happened? Alarm rushes up into his _fae_ , makes it leap. “Is something wrong? What’s going on?”

 

“I believe, my Prince,” the person says, “that a sizeable amount of unknown intruders have breeched our southern borders.” 

 

“Intruders?” Surprise makes his voice go shrill. “When? How long will it take until they get here?”

 

“The King was alerted to this intrusion early this morning, my Prince. I do not know how long it will take for the intruders to be apprehended, but rest assured that the King has sent a well-armed patrol of guards out to capture them. I apologise for the inconvenience.” 

 

_A patrol? Please, do not say it is Annith!_ “Do you- do you know who has been sent out?” That part of the forest he knows to be riddled with _yngyl_ , and while his sister is smart and brave, she is still _his sister_ \- 

 

“His Majesty sent out a stealth patrol lead by the Prince Aeglostor, my prince.”

 

Relief floods him so suddenly that he has to take a breath. “O-Oh. I see.”

 

The guard, most likely hearing the relief in his voice and mistaking it for concern, shuffles slightly. “Do not worry, my Prince. The Prince Aeglostor is a mighty warrior. I am sure he will be fine.”

 

The morning passes as slowly as a crust of bread through a honey pot. Legolas is resigned to his bedchamber to wait until the patrol returns, as he supposes every _edhel_ within _Eryn Galen_ must. A breeze stirs outside, and the sound of branches banging on the window is, for a while, the only sound in his room. 

 

Eventually a maid comes and delivers him breakfast; eager for news, he begs her for information, but she only shakes her head and apologises. “I do not know, my prince, what is happening. Only that the Halls are kept closely guarded.” 

 

Anxious, he watches as the water-clock shifts from the 10th hour, to the 11th. _Belathon would be getting ready to meet Aeglostor in the dungeons by now_ , he thinks. But how can he get out before 12? 

 

Legolas investigates his chamber, searching in vain for a way of escape- pushing against the interconnected door between his and Faervel’s chambers is a lost cause- the wood refuses to budge, even when he shoves against its weakest points. 

 

Even trying to reach out and touch the bond between him and Ada ends in failure; it is as though a great wall stands between them, for he can get no glimpse of what his father sees, nor how he feels. Guilt rises up to his throat, causes his _fae_ to twist. Perhaps- last night, the way he had forbidden Ada from seeing into his mind- is that why he can no longer sense him? Or, he tries to think reasonably, _Ada could be stopping me from reaching him. He has done that before when something is wrong._

 

Curious, he touches the stone walls about him. Almost immediately their Song floods his _fae_ , heavy and sturdy as stone always is. The rocks Sing of strangers- intruders- and the word of the King, who forbids any from leaving the safety of its cold embrace. 

 

And then, just as the water-clock shows _Anor_ to be at her zennith, there is the sound of clanging feet upon rock right outside his door. 

 

“My prince!” The guard calls, and Legolas scrambles to his feet. “My prince, the patrol has returned!”

 

“And the intruders? _Ai_ -!” He almost stumbles over a carpet as the blood rushes to his head. For a moment his vision goes red, but he manages to regain his balance on the hard edge of a table, and totters over to the door. 

 

“They- they are _naugrim_ , and 13 of them there are!” 

 

The word, so unfamiliar, stops him. “Dwarves? What are a company of _naugrim_ doing in our woods?” He knows of dwarves, of their traitorous actions many, many _yen_ ago in a long forgotten forest, but never has he thought they would come to _Eryn Galen_! 

 

For a brief moment laughter bubbles up in his chest as he imagines Lhosben or Ada’s faces. There are few people that they mistrust more than those hairy creatures!

 

“The King speaks with their leader now, my prince, to try and glean their purpose; the rest he has put in bars.”

 

The dungeons! Dismay fills him. _That is where Belathon plans to meet!_ “May- may I come out of my chambers now?” He asks.

 

The guard pauses. “You may, but the King requests that you remain close to your chambers until the purpose of the _naugrim_ is discovered. A council will be called as soon as his Majesty finishes questioning the leader.”

 

“Yes, yes I will!” Ada could ask him to go climb the cave walls for all he cares! 

 

At last, there is the _clank_ of the key turning in the lock, and the door _creaaaaks_ open- “ _Hannon le_!” Legolas shoots out of the door and flies down the corridor before the guard can utter more than a shout of surprise. 

 

It is rude, he knows, to push past others, but he must reach the dungeons before any realise where he goes, and his legs ache with the need to _run._ He hares down the corridor, propels himself off the stairs and lands with a _thud_ on the ground. 

 

Other elves are beginning to peer out of their own quarters, their faces wary as though expecting an attack, but Legolas hardly cares. 

 

Bolting past the chambers of Emlinel and Lhosben, he catches a glimpse of his older brother’s surprised face- “Legolas!” Lhosben calls after him, “where do you go-?”

 

He does not slow, not even for the angry shout of his brother. How joyous it is to feel his legs stretch out from under him- the pull of his muscles! 

 

Weaving his way through the various corridors, he travels past the royal quarters, and then down past the kitchens and other stations. Light filters in through the caverns, spilling across the stones and warming them under his feet. Yet everyone is quiet; the faces of the _ellyn_ and _ellyth_ he passes are pale and drawn tight with worry. No one seems to be excited by the news of _naugrim_ within their Halls, and worry tugs at his _fae_.

 

Legolas slows to a walk, lets two _ellyn_ pass him by. 

 

“Did you hear?” One says with nary a glance at the slight figure he passes. “His Majesty is furious at those hairy little creatures.”

 

The other nods, voice drifting as they turn a corner. “Yes- he knows the leader too, apparently. Something about a dwarf called Oaken-shield?”

 

Oaken-shield? The name tickles at his mind, teases him. Hadn’t Badhron gone over the history of the dwarves briefly, once? No, he’s sure he’d remember a dwarf with a name as- as ridiculous as _Oaken-shield_! 

 

With a shake of his head, Legolas continues after the _ellyn,_ reaching the top of a flight of stairs. The dungeons- if he remembers true- are several flights below Ada’s Halls, and just past where the merchants store all of the season’s Dorwinion and imperishable foods. 

 

The world darkens as he journeys deeper under the earth, pausing only to glance around him as he reaches the second flight of stairs. The corridor is empty, and so he carries on. 

 

Unexpectedly as he rushes down the stone stairs, a sensation of worry begins to creep into his _fae_ and tugs. Shouldn’t he wait back near his chambers, as the guard suggested?  Legolas nearly pauses as the worry flickers again within him. This time it is stronger, and it _pulls_. Almost abruptly, he turns and goes to travel back up the stairs-

 

_No. What am I doing? I have to- I must meet Belathon_ \- he stops, shakes his head frustratedly, trying to push down the worry that beats against his _fae_. _There isn’t any need to go back now!_

 

The sensation of his _fae_ being pulled fades at last, and he resumes his journey. The skin on his neck prickles; it is dim here, and the scent of earth and stone strong against his nose. The quiet patter of his feet upon stone quickens until at last the flight of stair ends, and he finds himself on flat ground. The door to the cavern is open already, and carries a pungent, almost earthy scent with it. 

 

Just as he remembers, the cavern which holds their prison is wide, allowing for rows upon rows of cells to stretch to the left of him in a semi-circle allotment. A single lantern illuminates the stretch of cells. 

 

Voices reach his ears, and turning his gaze, Legolas sees the two _ellyn_ from earlier walking around the corner, completely ignoring the cells behind them.  “By Eru,” one says loudly in the strange Westron tongue, “who knew that _naugrim_ could stink so much?”

 

The reply of the other is lost to him, for a sudden wave of growls and strange, rough syllables erupt from the cells. 

 

Legolas has to bite back a grin as he leaves the shelter of the doorway and quietly pads after the two _ellyn_ ; the dwarves heard the insult, and clearly they did not like it! 

 

However, curiosity prickles at his skin, and he cannot resist pausing to glance at the full cells behind him. The gloomy air does not hide the sight of at least a dozen angry- and _hairy_ \- faces glaring back at him. 

 

One of the _naugrim_ , his head shining bald in the dim lighting, but curiously stamped with intricate tattoos, even steps forward to grasp the heavy bars of his cell and growls. “What’re _you_ looking at?” He snarls. In the gloom his teeth flash, white as the fangs of a wolf.

 

The angry growl of his voice rolls down his skin and makes Legolas jump. He quickly hurries away, resolutely ignoring the low rumbles of amusement which drift after him. _I suppose_ , he notes as he uncurls his fists from where they’d clenched in surprise, _it_ is _rude to stare- even if it is only at a bunch of smelly dwarves!_

 

Down he traverses, turning into a small conclave of storage rooms. Relief rushes to him as he hears the sound of elven voices trickling out from a room, just past where the heady scent of Dorwinion wafts out at him. 

 

Belathon’s passionate voice, rising and falling as the flight of a hawk which is buffeted by headwinds, greets him first, just as he reaches the door. 

 

“-why should we be content to sit under the governing hands of the Sindar, when it is our forest they have found themselves within!” 

 

His hand- raised to knock politely- pauses in the cool air, and Legolas feels his mouth pulling down into a frown. 

 

_What- what is Belathon saying? Is he speaking of Eryn Galen?_

 

“Listen here,” says Belathon, for even with a wooden door between them, and the sharp, focused breaths of other _edhil_ , there is no mistaking that voice. “For too long, we have allowed this ancient king, who thinks himself as mighty and above all of us, to rule our forest. We have let him rule _us_! Why? We are Silvan- we had no need for his kind, before they came and enmeshed themselves in our wood! We were prospering- we thrived! And look at what has happened now!”

 

_Eru Above!_ The air hitches in his lungs and his heart thuds against his chest. Voices rise in agreement, utter cries of support. Their cries are as loud against his ears as the roar of water against rocks. 

 

_What am I listening to?_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin- Yngyl- spiders  
> Yen- roughly a thousand years or a really long time   
> Fae- spirit   
> Rhaw- body   
> Hannon le- thank you


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Legolas is mad for good reason, Belathon is manipulative, and Thranduil worries

Disbelief churns in Legolas’ stomach, and every elven sense he has within his fey bones is calling for him to turn and _leave._ How can Belathon spread such untrue words? More than that, those _ellyn_ he had followed- they offer their support for Belathon! They support his- his _lies_! 

 

“We are forced to hide away in this cave, cut off from our forest, from her Song! She dies all around us, while we are forbidden from doing anything to aid her!”

 

_That isn’t true!_ Anger swoops down upon him like the talons of a hawk, and he can see nothing but red. He wants to shout, to push his hands against the wooden door and spill into the room, to defend his family!

 

“-the King is weak- this is true, my friends. Some of you I know to still hold ties of loyalty to him, but I must insist on this. He cannot see past this cave- cannot see into the forest which sickens and decays about us! He is too caught up in his personal grief to see what we all need!”

 

_Ada- weak?_ Legolas bristles, the red wave of rage choking all breath from his lungs. _How can Belathon speak about my father like that? He knows nothing!_  

 

“We need someone who is strong, who is full of promises and can lead us into a brighter future-someone who isn’t caught up in their grief for a dead _elleth_ -”

 

The rage that burns within him suddenly _roars_ , and Legolas finds himself yanking at the latch, nails breaking under the force of his grip- 

 

The door bursts inward- Legolas follows- 

 

“Belathon!” The words fly from him as though they are daggers, and the Silvan’s face turns white as fresh snow- “Belathon you-you _traitor_!” 

 

“What-! Eru above!” At least a dozen _edhil_ peer at him, some of their faces swiftly turning to anger, others fear.  “Who is that-?!”

 

Abruptly, the room plunges into darkness. Legolas stumbles forward, his hands shaking with the force of emotions. He had _trusted_ Belathon! He trusted him- he thought he had had a _friend_ -!

 

“A spy!” Someone shouts, and several hands- their grip painfully tight- clench about his shoulders. “Grab him- hold him down!”

 

“How could you speak about Ada like that!” He thrashes even as those holding him push him to the ground, the air pressed from his lungs. He wants to run at the Silvan Elf who has stepped back against the wall, his face blanched of all colour. 

 

“You-” he coughs, spits out chips of stone which has been pushed into his mouth- “my nana- you don’t know anything about her! _Let go of me_!” 

 

Nails dig into his shoulders, pinch his skin even through his tunic, and he yelps. 

 

“ _Hir nin_ -” a voice gasps above him- “ _hir nin,_ what do we do?”

 

Legolas squirms, tries to kick out. The anger which makes his heart race is beginning to bleed from him, and ice trickles up his veins. But isn’t relief- it is shock, and his limbs stiffen under him. _Edhil- my people- they’re holding me down_. 

 

“Hold still, rat!” Someone snarls into his ear. “You have no business spying on us!” 

 

“ _Daro_!” Belathon’s voice shakes. “Let him go! Do you not know who you hold?” 

 

Neck aching with the force of having to hold his head up, horror rushes into Legolas as warmth spills across his lips. He doesn’t want to cry over Belathon, but now that the rage is fading, he realises his _fae_ twists and aches with pain. Frantically, he tries to blink back the tears, but it is too late. All faces have turned to him, and no doubt see the silver lines which run down his cheeks. “I- I trusted you!”

 

“Let him go? _Hir nin_ , he was spying on us!” A voice hisses above him. Their knee digs into his back, the weight almost enough to make him cry out.

 

_No- I won’t!_ He bites his lip, glowers up at the shadowed face of Belathon. 

 

“He-” the words wobble on the Silvan elf’s lips, as though they are caught on an invisible thread, “he is the Prince Legolas. Let him go!”

 

Audible gasps and hisses of horror rush through the cavern. The crushing weight on his back eases suddenly, the sharp nails detracting. 

 

With a gasp, Legolas rises to his feet. “You-” he chokes, finds tears clogging his throat, making speech almost impossible. “You- why would you say such things?”

 

The dark form of the _ellon_ in front of him does not move. He only stays very still, save for the rapid rise and fall of his chest. 

 

“Belathon-” a dark-haired _elleth_ hisses. “Belathon! What do we do?”

 

“Prince Legolas,” Belathon says, and his voice is soft. “Little prince, listen to me. I-I did not mean to speak ill of your father. Truly. I only- I only want what is best for our people.”

 

“If you didn’t mean to speak ill of Ada, then why would you call him weak?” He demands. His hands shake against his sides, the air wheezing in and out of his lungs. Part of him wants to reach for Ada, to pretend that everything he heard isn’t true. _And it isn’t!_  

 

“I-” the ellon shakes his head, lips pressed firm. “I-I…”

 

“See?” Legolas growls, “you do not even know why you say such lies! You’re wrong!” 

 

“He’s not wrong!” Snaps the dark-haired elleth. “He-” she glances to Belathon, lightning quick- “when he referred to your father being weak, he was only pointing out what was true.”

 

Legolas bristles. “My Ada ISN’T weak!” 

 

“He is weak,” the _elleth_ says in a tone that brooks no argument, “but only because he cares. He cares too much for the well-being of his people, so much so that he overlooks the most important part of the realm; the forest.” 

 

Something in him grows very still, waits. “Kings are supposed to care,” he says angrily, rubs away the tear-tracks on his cheeks. “It is their job.” 

 

“Yes, you are right, little prince,” Belathon says lowly, and his gaze pierces Legolas like silver daggers. “Kings are supposed to care. Care for everyone, not just those who reside in their caves. Am- am I truly a traitor, for wanting all my people to be happy?”

 

_You are a traitor for calling my Ada weak, and for wanting someone else on the throne_ , he glares.

 

Belathon must see the thoughts flickering in his eyes, for he glances away to those _edhil_ gathered around them. Most faces are drawn, tight- afraid. 

 

“I- I did not lie, Legolas, when I said that _Eryn Galen_ needs you. That was what I spoke of, what you overheard. We want to help our forest, rebuild her to her former glory.”

 

“Forests cannot be rebuilt, Belathon.” Legolas retorts, thinking of Lhosben and how he gives away nothing even when speaking to those he does not like. “And _Eryn Galen_ has my father to protect her.”

 

Someone in the corner of the room makes a low noise in the back of their throat. 

 

“That may be so for you,” the _ellon_ says, “but your Ada has not protected everyone within these walls.”

 

“He protected everyone this morning when the _naugrim_ came!” He snaps. 

 

Belathon only shakes his head. “He restricts us, little prince. Can you truly not see that? He locked us all within his Halls, and forbade any from entering, or leaving.”

 

“I-I” the words dry up on his tongue. _He is right_ , a traitorous voice whispers, _Ada did so._

 

_No_! He glares up at Belathon, tries to find anger in his heart. “You- you don’t know that!”

 

There is a whisper of fabric as Belathon steps forward. “I do- we all do. The King- he belittles us. Pretends we are all children, who must hide behind his shadow for safety.” His voice becomes bitter. “Our people are not elflings.”

 

Legolas finds that he does not know what to say, and it must show on his face. Belathon leans in, his eyebrows narrowed. “You are no elfling, am I correct?”

 

With nothing to say, he stays silent. The anger is fading from his heart as quickly as it appeared- no longer is he able to grasp at it, feel it burn in his chest. He is filled only with embers. _I cannot lie_ , he thinks frantically. _I cannot say that I am an elfling, for that is not true. But I do not want to agree with Belathon_. 

 

He glances around him; the walls of the cavern seem to press in, like hands. The silent faces of the elves about him are as small moons in the shadows, watching him, continuing to wait. Only their faces have loosened, are no longer fearful. _Why?_

 

“My prince,” the dark-haired _elleth_ calls to him amongst the shadows. Her voice is no longer commanding, but heavy, as though weighed down with burdens he cannot see. “We are not all happy, here in these caves. You are- you are clever. You know who we are. We are of the _Laegrim;_ it is the trees we seek, long for. You yourself are part _Laegrim_. Do you not feel the Song of the forest, how it weakens, day by day, _yen_ by _yen_?”

 

The Song. He swallows. Even now, so close to the earth, it presses against him, as soothing as a lullaby. “I…”

 

“The King- he wants to protect us, it is true. But he is weak for it; he does not feel her Song as we do. That is why we have gathered here, in the dark, like criminals.”

 

“Or traitors,” Belathon says softly. “Húrneth is right. Little prince, do you think we do not love your father, for how he tries to protect us? Do you think we are not grateful that he tries?”

 

“I- you say you are tired of him, that you need someone who is strong.” He tries to spit the words as though they are venom, but he feels as though he has traversed a great mountain and all energy is sapped from his limbs.

 

“That is true,” The Silvan nods. They are so close now that Legolas can feel the _ellon’s_ breath against his head, see each murky strand of hair which slides down his shoulders. “We want someone to- to leave this Hall. To bring change to us. Not keep us from it.”

 

Leave the Halls? 

 

“No one can leave the Halls,” he says quickly, and his voice is breathless, as though speaking any louder would bring all to hear and know what he has done. What has been said, here in the gloom. “Not without the King’s permission.” How can Belathon not see this?

 

“You can, Legolas.” The Silvan leans in until the words creep across his skin, climb down into his _fae_. “And you will. I will show you how.”

 

His entire _rhaw_ prickles, as though he stands exposed under the sharp teeth of winter.

 

“I-” his words are silenced as his _fae_ pulls, draws the heavy air into his lungs suddenly- and this sensation is followed by the sweeping touch of a powerful mind against his.  Ada.

 

_No_. Again, he shrinks from the touch. Ada must not see this- he must not know where he is _. He does not deserve to see how our people plot against him. I must protect him_. 

 

“You say you are no elfling, Legolas.” Belathon continues on, oblivious. “Then do not behave as one. Think on what we have said.”

 

An auburn-haired elf makes a sound of frustration. “Belathon- _hir nin_ \- you jest! He is an _elfling_ \- how can we trust him with- with this?”

 

The Silvan raises a hand.

 

Again, Legolas’ _fae_ sings in welcome as that familiar mind touches their bond. This time, it is more insistent- heavier- _worried_ \- 

 

_Ada_ , he thinks. _Please_ \- 

 

_Laeslas_ , his father shakes aside his plea as though it were the weight of spring leaves. _Where are you?_

 

In front of him, the dark-haired _elleth_ is shaking her head- “-he is the _King’s_ elfling- we cannot-”

 

“-no, Húrneth, that is why he is the one to do it!” Belathon retorts, towering over her. “He is-”

 

“It is wrong-” intercepts the auburn haired _ellon_. “It sits ill with me, using one who has not yet seen a hundred summers-”

 

“Legolas” Belathon stands before him, places a hand on his shoulder. 

 

Legolas does not move away- he cannot, for his feet are rooted to the stones beneath him. 

 

“Do you heed me?”

 

_Come back_ , says Ada. His mind _tugs_ at him, urges his feet to climb stairs, to move. _Come back to me_. 

 

“Heed you?” His heart is beginning to race- Ada is insistent, will not allow him to be put aside as he was last eve. “You- you are…”

 

“I am right, am I not?” Belathon’s gaze is bright, impossibly so. “You are not an elfling. You do not have to wait for your Ada to tell you what to do.” 

 

_You must wait_ , says Ada, Lhosben, Faervel- all of those he loves. 

 

_You are too young_ , sneers Aeglostor. 

 

_You are an elfling- a child amongst a people whose lives are endless-_

 

“I-” he looks up into those silver eyes. They watch him, wait for him to speak. “I am only 57 summers…” They are the heaviest words he has ever admitted.

 

“Age, little prince,” Belathon says, his mouth tight, “is no excuse. Not when you can help others. Not when you can help your people in ways your father cannot. Now- do you heed me? Do you want the respect of your people? Do you want to be seen as more than your 57 summers?”

 

_Am I wrong_ , he wonders, _to want to say yes? Even when Belathon called Ada weak- said such horrible things- am I wrong to want to be more?_

 

“Don’t you want to leave these Halls? Don’t you want to see the forest? Hear her Song under your fingers?”

 

Longing rises in him, until all he can see is the light speckled upon autumn leaves, touching the forest floor. Still, he says nothing. He can feel Belathon’s words ensnaring him, waiting for him to make a single move. Take a step, and that voice is there, holding him down until he relents. 

 

_What will happen when I give in? When I agree with what he says?_  

 

The dark-eyed _elleth_ makes an impatient noise in the back of her throat. “Belathon, please…”

 

Belathon raises a single hand, and she falls silent. 

 

Slowly, the Silvan gives him a long, searching look. In the dark, cold fingers find his wrist, and curl around the bone. “Don’t you want to see your Ada smile? Look at you with pride, like he does Annith, and Lhosben?”

 

A weight settles in his _fae_. _Yes_. 

 

“Yes,” the words slip from him, far more easily than he’d expected. “I do.” It is true- he knows it, has known it from the moment he realised what it means to be born last, and be the youngest, when all of his family have already done something to help the Greenwood. All that is left for him is to seek what remains of his father’s praise.

 

Hope thumps in his chest. _And surely when I make him proud, he will know who I am. Not an elfling, but a true prince of the forest_. Even if it means resorting to plotting with Belathon and his traitor-words, Legolas will do it. 

 

Yet- he cannot quite shake the sense that he is giving up some part of himself in the dark cavern beneath the earth. 

 

Belathon smiles, his teeth flashing like many pairs of eyes. “Good. I will tell you, then, how you may do so.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin: Yen- roughly a thousand years  
> Ellon/Ellyn- Male elves  
> Edhel/Edhil- Elf/Elves  
> Hir nin- my lord   
> Daro- stop  
> Laegrim- green elves- also known as Silvan.   
> Fae- spirit   
> Rhaw- body


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein there is a bitter argument, and Legolas plots.

Before Belathon can utter another word, Legolas shakes his head and steps away from the Silvan. “I must leave, for my father calls me.”

 

“Leave now?” Says the dark-haired elleth. “ _Hir nin_ , we must not-”

 

“No,” says Belathon, “it is well. The little prince must return to his father before he is missed. But promise me this, Legolas. You will not breathe a word of this to any other, not even your Lady Faervel.”

 

Legolas twists his hand out from the Silvan’s hold, anger stirring in his chest. Though he has agreed to follow Belathon’s word, he no longer trusts him, nor likes the way he speaks down to him. “Do not treat me as though I am still an elfling!”

 

“He must leave now, _hir nin,_ if the King calls him” An _elleth_ steps forward, places a hand on Belathon’s arm. “And so must we.”

 

Belathon nods shortly to Legolas. “I will send a messenger for you when we need to speak again.”

 

A dozen pairs of eyes look down on him, expectant, and Legolas realises with a jolt that he has been dismissed- _dismissed_! As though Belathon is his own _hir_ , not just an elf who has promised him his freedom. A weight settles in his stomach as he turns and leaves the dark cavern. _I wanted my freedom, but at what cost will it be? Does Belathon now expect me to bow to him?_

 

Legolas does not even look to the cells which hold the _naugrim_ \- that time of curiosity seems so long ago, and he feels as though his feet are leaden as he climbs up the stairs. 

 

_I come, Ada_ , he reaches for the bond which lies dormant in his _fae_ and nudges it, careful to keep his thoughts to himself. Almost immediately their bond sings as his father’s mind responds to his call. He has heard, and Legolas sees a flash of books, the ancient desk carved from beechwood, feels the press of a pen in his hands. Ada waits for him in his study.

 

It does not take long for him to reach the royal quarters- most _edhil_ remain quiet and their faces tight with anxiety, eager to return to their own homes. The day’s events have startled all, shaken everyone to their roots. Even the usually bustling kitchen is oddly quiet, with only the sharp demands of Maessason and the subdued response of his many apprentices the only true noise in the King’s Halls.

 

But even as he hurries up the steps which take him down the corridor back to Ada’s chambers, he can hear his aunt’s furious voice. 

 

“-rest assured my lord Thranduil that I will have words with your son for departing so abruptly from his quarters! And to think that he did not even leave a note for me!”

 

The rumble of his father’s voice cuts through Faervel’s sharp words. “He comes now, Faervel, and you may repeat your scolding to him.”

 

“Laeslas!” There come the stomp of angry feet as Faervel swings around from the entrance to his father’s study. Her face grows dark as she spots him, and Legolas nearly turns and runs. 

 

“Where, exactly, have you been these past hours?” She lunges for him as though sensing his fear, and grasps him by the arm. Up close her cheeks are pale and eyes bright with fury.

 

“Aunt?” Legolas tries to keep his voice calm, but he can feel her mess of emotions trembling within their bond, like the wild tempest of a storm. His own voice wobbles, as though about to spill over. “I am sorry- I did not mean to leave for so long…” 

 

“Oh you know how often I have told you to stay close to your chambers! Why do you not listen?” Her grip is relentless as she pulls him into the private study of his father. He presses down a noise of pain as the bone within his arm grinds against the other. “I cannot believe that all my teachings, all my lessons, have failed me and left me to deal with such an irresponsible child!”

 

Within the study, Ada sits at his wooden chair, legs crossed and crimson gown spread about him in a deceivingly casual manner. But even by the doorway Legolas can see the tightness around his eyes, and the pale cut of his cheeks. One white, bejewelled finger taps rapidly against the pile of papers which sit upon the desk. 

 

_He is equally as furious_ , Legolas thinks, heart sinking down to hide behind his ribs.

 

Faervel continues her berating even as she releases him to slam the door behind them. “Do you know- do you have _any idea_ how worried I have been? No- of course you do not, for I see now that you take no consideration in how others might feel when you bolt from your chambers and race off who knows where-!”

 

“Aunt,” Legolas pleads, but his voice is small against her tempest, “I went only- only to the kitchens.” The lie sits heavily on his tongue, like a stone that he cannot be rid of. He does not dare look at Ada. 

 

“I do not care if you went down into the dungeons themselves Laeslas, I only care that you did not _tell_ any _edhel_ before doing so!” 

 

“ _Goheno nin_ , Aunt, but I- I wished to stretch my legs. I…I did not think.” He looks to the smooth stones underfoot, ears burning. _If only she knew- her fury would be nothing now…_

 

“That has been made clear by your behaviour!” Faervel growls. But something in her voice softens, and he dares to peek a glance at her. The storm-clouds are fading from her features, her mouth loosening from its rigid line. 

 

“Listen, Laeslas. I- _we_ -” she glances at Ada who remains motionless, “we grew worried when I came to see you. I know you were locked in your chambers for a long while, but it is so frightening to go to your charge’s room and find it devoid of that which we hold so dear.” 

 

“But-” Legolas sees an opening and takes it, only for Ada to raise one hand. 

 

“No, Laeslas,” he says, and there is an edge to his voice that makes his _fae_ shrink back, nestle further down into the flesh of his _rhaw-_ a rabbit startled back into its burrow. “You do not understand what we now face, with these _naugrim_ in our Halls.”

 

“Then,” Legolas finds his voice has become soft, pleading, “will you not tell me? I could- I could _help_ …” 

 

“You can _help_ ,” Ada says, and his voice shakes suddenly. Abruptly he pauses, looks aside for a heartbeat. When his grey eyes look to Legolas, they are dim, as though they see something he cannot. “You can help by staying where your Aunt requires you to be, and not causing more of a headache for all.”

 

A _headache_? _Stay where I am required? I am ‘required’ out in the world! Not in my chambers!_

 

All softness he feels for his father dissolves. “Don’t dismiss me!” He says sharply, heat entering his voice. “I am not an elfling.”

 

Ada’s mouth goes rigid with anger, and he can see something sharp and cutting flash over his eyes. “Only an elfling would say that, and you _truly_ are one.”

 

His words strike Legolas as equally as a blow. “That is because you treat me one!” He hurls back, voice trembling with anger. “I am _not_ \- I am not a child to be stuffed in my chambers! I don’t want to be locked in my chambers for the rest of my life, I want to help- I want to _train_ -”

 

“Laeslas-” Faervel says sharply, voice tinged with warning, but it is too late for Ada rises and the entire room grows dark with his anger. 

 

“ _Enough_!” He snaps, and he is no longer Ada, but King Thranduil, merciless and cold. The change is as shocking to Legolas as a slap to his face, and he suddenly sees that formidable King who has brooded over his kingdom for _yen_ upon _yen,_ the one that Belathon had spoken of with such disdain. 

 

“I will hear no more of you wishing to train, or help, or any other desire which goes against my wishes,” those cold grey eyes flash at him, knock any chance of words deep down into his chest. “Not for another fifty summers when you are then ready and able. Until then, you will stay here and wait out your years as all elflings must.”

 

Amidst his anger and humiliation and horror and the sensation that he has been struck by a dagger, Legolas can feel tears prickling at the backs of his eyes, but he does not care. He no longer cares. 

 

_Belathon was wrong about you,_ he seethes _. You are not weak, but you are as merciless as every cruel device which snaps their jaws about an animal only to leave them to them die slowly and in agony_. 

 

“I understand now,” he chokes out, voice thick, “why Aeglostor hates you so much. You are cold, and you are cruel and I-I do not wish to see you ever again!”

 

“Oh, but you will.” Ada says, and Legolas can no longer see his face clearly through the veil of tears. But his voice rings out, relentless and as hard as _mithril._ “You will have to face me and bow each and every morning, and one day- one day, child, you will know I did all of this to protect you.”

 

“Thranduil-” Faervel’s voice is low and unsteady, as it only is when she is deeply upset. 

 

“No,” blurred though his vision is, Legolas can still see that bejewelled hand wave a dismissal. The pale digits waver before his eyes, as though trembling. “I will not hear it. Take the child and leave me.”

 

“Come, _Laes_. Come, child.” Faervel’s hand is insistent against the small of his back, the other wrapped around his shoulders. Quickly, yet gently, she leads him from the study, past the guards who stand outside, and down the corridor. 

 

It is halfway back to their chambers that Legolas feels his feet begin to slow, his knees wobble beneath him. “Aunt-” he chokes out, and shame rises and squeezes within him as tears burn a slow path down his cheeks. “ _Aunty_ -”

 

“Hush, _Laes_ , just keep walking. We are nearly there.” 

 

His Aunt’s warm embrace keeps him walking until they at last turn past the guards, whose eyes immediately land on his tear-stained face and then just as quickly look away, and into his bed-chamber. She guides him to his bed, the mattress dipping under their weight. Gently, cool fingers reach up and tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. 

 

Desperate to maintain what feeble strength he has left, Legolas forces down the urge to lean into the touch. 

 

“Now, Laeslas,” Faervel strokes his hair, voice a low murmur which trembles, “your Ada…he- he has been facing a lot of pressure from the council recently. He does not mean- I know his words were harsh, but I also know that he loves you deeply. What he said just then- those words only reflected everything that he has been faced with.”

 

“H-He treats me like I am a child!” Strangely, the tears that left him feeling like an elfling no longer fall. He is instead filled with fire- a fire that licks at his bones, burns against his chest. 

 

Faervel nods. “That he does- but Laes, do you not see why he wants to protect you? While it is well meant, everything you said about helping and training, for everything I have taught you, can you truly not accept that you are- only 57 summers?”

 

_I am only 57 summers_ , he had said, only just this afternoon. Before, those words had been the hardest he had had to ever say. Now- now they are unbearable. 

 

_Age is no excuse_ , Belathon had said. But to his father, to all, they are chains which keep him from leaving, from doing anything to help _Eryn Galen_. 

 

_I can do nothing._ “I know, Faervel.” He says, and his voice is empty. “May- may I be alone?” 

 

Sadness spreads across his aunt’s face. “Of course, dear heart. I will be next door, if you need me.”

 

He does not watch as she stands and leaves through the interconnected door. He stares out, across his sun-painted room, to the window where the Song calls to him in amongst the forest. Instead of anger, he can only hear the quiet resolve that lies within his heart. The words of Belathon, which once he hated and thought to be mistaken upon, are now all he has left. 

 

_Fifty more summers_ , Ada had said. He had handed the words to him, like a piece of bread, whether he wanted it or not. 

 

_No. Fifty summers in these Halls is too long. I cannot bear it. Belathon had said I could leave the Halls, could earn respect. And now, with my freedom left to dangle upon a knife’s edge? What other choice do I have but to trust in his word?_

 

_I will go,_ he thinks _. I will go, and I will listen to the Song of the forest, while she still lives. I will leave these Halls, and do what it takes to earn respect. I will help my people._

 

This time, he does not hesitate. 

 

While his knees shake under him as though he is a newborn deer, Legolas stands and makes for the small desk tucked by the window. Across it, he digs about the piles of paper and pulls out one that remains unblemished by ink-stains. And he writes. 

 

Belathon- Tell me what I must do to have my freedom, and I will gladly do it. Your word is mine to follow. L.

 

Folding the paper neatly in half, Legolas rises from his desk, and with a furtive glance at the interconnecting door, makes his way to the entrance of his chamber. “Guard,” he calls, and from where the guard stands by his door, they turn their head to him. Underneath their mask, hazel eyes view him with a gentle sort of caution.

 

“Prince Legolas,” the guard snaps to attention, waits.

 

Drawing himself up as best he can, Legolas nods up at the tall _edhel_. “I- I wish you to deliver a private letter to the Lord Belathon.” 

 

“My prince?” The guard does not tilt their head, but their eyes blink slowly in confusion. “Would it not be better if you gave the letter to your father’s butler?”

 

No- that is no option for him. Galion is above all loyal to his father, who in turn will surely take the letter and read it, and then his hopes will be destroyed. Legolas takes a breath, shakes his head. His insides feel as though they have turned to water, and slosh around inside of him. 

 

“I- I believe Galion to be with my father, in council. I require this letter to be delivered as soon as possible- would you not do so?”

 

“Forgive me, my prince,” the guard says slowly, “but it is not in my position to be delivering letters across the King’s Halls.”

 

“Oh,” Legolas sags his shoulders, widens his eyes. “If- if you say so…” His heart is beginning to pound against his chest. What can he do? There is no way he can ask either Faervel or Galion to deliver the letter. 

 

Just as he is beginning to fear that the guard will refuse, their stiff posture softens and they give a huff. “I really should not be doing so, but.. very well, my prince.” One gauntleted hand reaches out and carefully takes the letter from him. “I will deliver this to Lord Belathon as quickly as I am able.”

 

“Oh!” Legolas gazes up at the guard, relief bringing all the tension in his muscles to fade, “thank you kindly..”

 

The guard nods. “Tervon, my prince.”

 

Legolas tries to summon a smile. It is as though a hand has reached down and lifted all the weight off his shoulders. “Thank you, Tervon. I am truly most grateful.”

 

“Yes, well” the _ellon_ says quickly, “please do not mention it to my superiors. Or to the Prince Aeglostor.”

 

Legolas nods, feeling as empty as a hollowed out tree. “Of course I won’t. Your secret is mine to keep, Tervon.”

 

The guard gives one last nod before departing down the corridor, leather boots soft across the stone floors. 

 

Legolas watches until the masked head vanishes from sight, before turning and retreating back to his chambers to wait. 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin: Naugrim- dwarves  
> Hir nin- My lord   
> Fae- spirit   
> Rhaw- body   
> Elleth/Ellon- female/male elf   
> Edhil/Edhel- elves/elf


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Legolas mopes, and Belathon plots some more

The next morning sees Legolas without answer from Belathon and still confined to his chambers. With the morning promising to be pleasant and the cold air warming slowly under the weakened rays of _anor,_ all but himself are once more permitted to wander in the Halls. 

 

And him? He must instead sit in his study and arduously go through yet another lesson of Sindar history with his tutor. He supposes it is a punishment of sorts for the words he had hurled at his father, and it only makes the sense of anger and misery grow within him. 

 

“No, no, my prince, it was in the years of the trees that King Thingol became enmeshed in the woods and came upon the Maiar Melian- you are thinking to the time wherein the mortal Beren stumbled across fair Luthien.” Badhron gives a sigh large enough to shake the very stones around them. “Where is your head today?”

 

“Still on my neck, my lord.” Legolas replies listlessly. He can hardly bring himself to focus on history when he is wondering if Tervon truly delivered the letter to Belathon, and whether Belathon has read it and responded. 

 

His tutor does not seem pleased with his arch comment. “No, not on your neck, my prince. Think- among the clouds, perhaps? Or within the forest?” 

 

The forest. Legolas suppresses a shiver of longing. _Soon, I will be out there_. 

 

“Come now, my prince. Let us turn now to the time wherein Beren came across the fair Luthien. I shall not ask you dates, for I see that you are bored with numbers today, but shall ask you to repeat to me-”

 

There comes the sound of heavy, armoured feet upon the stone floor, and a guard knocks loudly on the door. “Prince Legolas?”

 

“Oh, Eru Himself would be pressed to answer questions today,” Badhron puffs, but gestures to the door. “You may come in!”

 

Legolas raises his head as the guard steps inside his chamber; his eyes are drawn to the small piece of parchment held in one gauntleted hand. The hope that resides quietly in his chest swells. A note!

 

“My prince,” the guard sketches a polite bow to him, puts aside a nod to his tutor. “I bring to you a letter from the butler Galion.” 

 

Galion? Legolas’ _fae_ trembles as he murmurs his thanks, taking the parchment in his hand. Has he been discovered? Had Tervon reported the letter he sent to Belathon?His stomach sinks. Hopefully his father has not sent him a request to join him for lunch. 

 

“Pardon me, tutor Badhron, but may I…” he turns beseeching eyes on his weary tutor. 

 

“Yes, my prince, you may take a break to read the message. Only- let me sit by your desk for a while. My legs ache in this cold weather.” 

 

Concern rises through him as his tutor slowly eases himself down onto a chair, as though he is as old as an oak which groans in the fierce winds. “Badhron, are you well? Do you need me to fetch a Healer?” 

 

“No, no” his tutor shakes his auburn head, though his eyes are stamped with dark rings and his cheeks are wane. “I am well. Just- let me sit for a moment. You may read the message where you wish.”

 

“Only, if you are sure…” Legolas gives the older _ellon_ a look, and with a nod from his tutor, he hurries through his study door to his bedchamber. Hands trembling, he hurriedly tears at the seal over the letter, and uncurls the parchment to see familiar, curled handwriting. 

 

Prince Legolas, 

I must first extend my apologies for sending the letter in such a form. To get this past the guards, I had to plead that it was sent from your father’s loyal butler. I received the note you sent, and I ask only this: explain to whoever keeps you that Galion requires your presence in his office at noon-tide. Say it is about the upcoming Mereth-en-Giliath. Meet me by the storage-rooms, near the kitchens. 

There, everything relating to your previous note will be explained. I am afraid the matter is quite urgent, so do hurry. 

Burn this as soon as you have read this. There can be no proof that we ever conversed. 

B.

 

Legolas glances to the water-clock, his heart beating with excitement and slight trepidation. It is near noon! _I must burn the letter first_ , he reminds himself as he turns to race out the door. _And I must get Badhron to believe me._

 

Unfortunately for him, the fire that usually is kept burning in his bed-chamber has smouldered out, and he resolves to shoving the note under his mattress. _I will return and burn you later_ , he thinks, _once all is sorted_. 

 

“Tutor Badhron,” he calls upon re-entering the study, and immediately regrets it. Badhron is lifting his head from where he had been resting against the desk, looking as though he hasn’t slept for a _yen_. “I-may I speak to you?”

 

“Oh?” His tutor shakes his head quickly, as though trying to dismiss the call of sleep. “Forgive me, my prince, but your royal father had me chasing all the records on _naugrim_ until the small hours.” He gives a weary smile. “I’m afraid all the lack of sleep and long hours studying have finally caught up with me.”

 

Dwarves? Legolas frowns. What is his father trying to find amongst the record of _naugrim_? “It- it is no matter, Badhron. I- Galion requests my presence in his office.”

 

“His office?” Badhron blinks. “Whatever for?”

 

Legolas shrugs, as causally as he can. “He says it is for discussion about the _Mereth-en-Giliath_ and…and what I should wear.” He tacks on the last bit desperately, searching for an excuse that seems reasonable. 

 

It works; his stuffy tutor _snorts_ , of all things. “Trust that fussy old _ellon_ to worry about gowns and finery. Do you need my presence there?” 

 

Legolas shakes his head, trying not to fidget. Time is slipping away, and he must hurry. “No, it is fine. I can manage to find my way there.”

 

His tutor is nodding before he can finish his sentence, and rubs an eye blearily with one veiny hand. “Very good, my prince. I will wait here, until you return.”

 

He bows, relief hammering in his heart, and quickly turns and walks as fast as he can out of the chamber without raising suspicion. 

 

* * *

 

“Legolas!” A familiar voice hisses to him as he hurries through the bustling kitchens and onto the storerooms behind them. 

 

Belathon stands just inside an open storeroom, and raises a hand to beckon to him. 

 

“ _Mae govannen_ , Belathon.” Legolas greets quickly, trying not to wrinkle his nose as he steps into the storeroom. It stinks of wild onions, and carries the earthy smell of potatoes, piles of which wait patiently at the back of the room. “I am glad-”

 

“Hush, little prince. Wait until I have closed the door.” As soon as he is inside, the tall _ellon_ reaches out and carefully shuts the door behind him. A single lamp illuminates their surroundings, and each other. 

 

Legolas tries not to giggle. To think that they are plotting his escape in a room full of onions and potatoes! “It is…a strange place to meet.” He says with a grin. 

 

Belathon does not smile, and the shadows casting sharp lines across his face make all amusement in Legolas splutter and die away. “We do not have time to chat, little prince. I have only just come across a way of allowing you to have your freedom, and us our liberty, but we must be swift to act.”

 

“Of-of course,” Legolas draws himself up, tamps down the excitement that races under his skin. “I am ready to do anything, if it means I may see the forest.”

 

Belathon’s pale eyes catch his in an upward sweep. “You will see much more than just the forest, if my plans come to formation.”

 

The _ellon_ leans in, and his eyes flash in the gloom like an owl’s, fierce and full of confidence. “How do you think you would manage being a Messenger for King Thranduil?”

 

A Messenger? For his father? His heart seems to stop its constant beat under his skin. “Where to?” He breathes. _There are few places I can go outside of the forest that lead to places of trade!_

 

Belathon glances about him, as though taking in the stocks about him. “To the town upon the lake.” 

 

_Laketown_? Disbelief coats his stomach and colours his words. “You mean- to the Men’s place?”

 

Belathon nods quickly. “You would act as a Messenger for our king and deliver the Master of Laketown a message, and then return home. There, your father will see what you have done to aid all of us, and praise you.”

 

Legolas cannot hear anything but the fact that he will be seeing and talking to another race. “How- how would I get there?” He knows his forest as well as any other _edhel_ , but the only way to reach the town upon the lake is by boat- 

 

“You follow the Forest River down to where the port of Men deliver their barrels of wine and wheat, and there a barge will take you to the Lake.” Belathon must see the apprehension that Legolas feels churning inside of him, for he places a careful hand on his shoulder. “Do not fear, little prince, I will give you a map and all that you require.” 

 

His touch is steadying, roots him back to the ground. But anxiety is building in his throat, and a rush of words fall from him. “I- I just..are you sure? That I will be able to do such a thing? I don’t know anything about messengers…”

 

“Legolas,” Belathon says, and the name hangs between them, makes him pause. “You say you are no elfling, then prove it. Be brave and know that you help your people.”

 

Legolas says nothing. It feels as though he stands upon a great precipice and peers down into the steep valley below and knows not where his feet will land, nor whether he will survive the journey down. 

 

His _fae_ shivers in his chest, uncertain and afraid. _I am afraid_ , he realises, o _f going out into a world that does not know me, meeting races who hold no more regard for elves than they do their own._

 

_I am not afraid of disobeying Ada, though_. 

 

That thought surprises him more than any other. Any anger he will face from his father seems inconsequential when he knows they have already exchanged such bitter words. 

 

The still form of Belathon gives a small sigh, as though disappointed. The tiny light from the lamp casts strange patterns across his skin, as though he is the forest floor to be dappled with the shadow of leaves and lines from tree branches. His silver eyes dance and flash, like those of a wild animal. 

 

Slowly, Belathon takes his hand from his shoulder, looks down on him with slitted eyes. “If you do not feel you are capable of such a thing, I am always able to ask another who is more confident.”

 

_If I am too much of an elfling_ , _you mean._ The thought immediately brings him to straighten his shoulders, tilt his chin up in a look he has been told is entirely the King’s. _No. I have chosen my path_. 

 

“I will do it.” He says, and this time the words are entirely his own, his voice strong. “I will go to the Lake.”

 

Again, Belathon does not smile, does not offer him a single look of approval. It is as though his words have made no difference to his plans, as though the very act of agreeing has no consequence to him. 

 

But even in the gloom Legolas can see how grave his eyes are, the irises flickering like light upon a river. It is a serious matter, what they discuss. “Very well, little prince.”

 

Silence falls between them for a moment, but not the one that makes him squirm. It is full of promise, full of a future that has Legolas in its grip and away from the darkness of his father’s Halls. 

 

And then Belathon looks to him, gesturing to the door. “Now, before we discuss this any further, let us find a more pleasant room.”

 

Legolas smiles, ducks his gaze down to his surroundings. “Yes. I do like potatoes and onions, but not that much.”

 

“As do I, my prince,” Belathon says with ease, and swings the door open, making sure to carefully check his surroundings before exiting. He smiles, but it is shallow and completely untrue, only there to blind any who cross him. 

 

_You are pretending_ , Legolas realises, following the slim _ellon_ out the door. _You make it seem as though all is well and that we were simply making a joke, or having fun._ A weight settles in his _fae_ , pulls his feet to slow and stop upon the stones. If Belathon pretends now to smile, how many times has he hidden what he truly feels? 

 

But then the Silvan is glancing behind him, back to Legolas, and his smile grows. This time Legolas watches as it touches the clear gaze, spins the pale shade of his eyes to a startling brightness. “Well, little prince? Do you follow?”

 

“I do,” he says, and hurries to catch up to the tall figure. 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this will be my last update for a few more days. While I have a fair few chapters written out, I want to spend some time editing and reviewing those, and writing new chapters.  
> Until then!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the plot to breach the Halls is revealed, there is a cameo by our favourite leader of the Company, and Lhosben pays a surprise visit.

The set of rooms Belathon leads him down are ones that Legolas has never visited. They are in the eastern part of the King’s Halls, and much like the rest of the kingdom, the snug little rooms are hewn into the living stone. Each contain enough space to support a desk, bookshelf, wardrobe and at one corner, a bed. 

 

“This is my room,” Belathon says with a wave of his hand, striding into a pleasant, if messy, room with books strewn all across the desk. 

 

Legolas is surprised; he never imagined the well-spoken _ellon_ to be so untidy when in such small quarters. The hard-backed books even pile up on the bookshelf, and on his bed!

 

“Please excuse the mess- I did not plan on having royalty over.” His tone is dry, but Legolas grins. 

 

“It is well- my sister Annith is not tidy at all; her room can be disgustingly messy. _This_ is nothing.”

 

“Ah, yes, Lady Annith.” Something crosses Belathon’s face so quickly that Legolas cannot discern it. “A fiercer _elleth_ I have not yet met.”

 

_His sister, fierce?_ Legolas knows she is a brilliant fighter, but to him she is just his sister, funny and bright and prone to laughing at improper moments. “I suppose she is that,” he admits, “being the Captain of the Guard.”

 

Belathon only hums, and reshuffles a pile of books so that he may lean against his desk. “Now, onto business. I must give you the logistics of my plan, for else how will you know when to leave your rooms, or which door to take that will lead you from these Halls?” 

 

The corner of his lips rise, but it isn’t a nice smile. More expectant. As though waiting for him to protest again that he _isn’t an elfling_.Legolas presses his lips together and waits. 

 

Slowly, one dark eyebrow raises, and with a look to him, Belathon unravels his plan. 

 

He will leave during the _Mereth-en-Giliath_ , that much is pressed into him. For otherwise there is no chance of him sneaking past guards who answer directly to the King. They will stop all, even an elfling- “ _especially_ the King’s elfling” quips the Silvan- who dares to try and breach the Halls. 

 

At the feast, Belathon explains, there will be Dorwinion and plenty of food, and that will leave all attendants sluggish and full, and even the guards will relax. Surely then the King’s magic will ease enough so that he may overlook a slight break in his security as something his mind brings up. 

 

This sits ill with Legolas, despite the fact that he and his father have not spoken since their fight, and how just the memory of their angry words still causes pain to rise up in his chest. To think of his father as- as _weakened_ , even by wine, brings his _fae_ to shiver and pull. Even at his most exhausted, the King has never been anything but alert and aware of all which goes on within his Realm. 

 

Belathon does not care, or maybe he simply does not see the indecision that roils within Legolas’ _rhaw_. He carries on, draws out a map which displays the entirety of _Eryn Galen_ , and the King’s Halls. 

 

Once Legolas has left the Halls equipped with the necessary clothes and message for the leader of Laketown, he will exit via the King’s Gates, or if that fails, the western door which leads out onto the Forest River. If the former, Legolas will trek through the forest until he reaches the river, and from there will travel downstream where he will meet a Man and be taken to Laketown, where he will then give his message. If the latter, Legolas will not have to cut through the forest, but instead continue on walking downstream, but avoid the guards who stand at the Water Wall and are in charge of the barrels which return downstream.

 

Once in Laketown, Legolas will meet with the leader of the Lake- the Master- and give his message. He will stay the night, if hosted well, and then return once the trade has been settled. 

 

“Then, and only then", Belathon impresses, gaze flickering up as though making sure Legolas still listens “may you return to the King’s Halls. Once you do, however, you shall be met with joy and pride.” 

 

“It-” unease makes his stomach turn, his _rhaw_ shiver as though he wishes to run. As eager as he is to feel the Song of the forest about him, he is also aware that he has never had such expectations on him before today. “It is a lot to remember.” 

 

_I knew the cost for my freedom would be steep,_ he thinks, _but I do not know if I am ready to pay it_. 

 

It is the wrong thing to say, for rather than reassure him, the calm-faced _ellon_ draws back and looks upon him with a curved half-smile. The pull of lips shows only a glimmer of teeth, but they flash at him in warning. “Do you wish for me to draw out a list for you, or hold your hand?” 

 

Legolas immediately flushes, embarrassed by how easily he sounds like an elfling. More than that, he does not like how Belathon looks at him, as though he is not worth a moment of his time.“No!” He protests, uncurls his fists. “No, I will remember.” 

 

“That is all I ask,” the Silvan says, and again there is an undercurrent in his voice that suggests he finds Legolas amusing- childish- petty. 

 

“Now,” Belathon sweeps on, “I have managed to snatch a Messenger’s outfit, but I will have to get it tailored down for your measurements. You are quite gangly.”

 

“Do we have enough time?” Legolas tamps down on the flare of irritation he feels swarming like an angry nest of bees within his chest. The feast is tomorrow, and he knows how particular some of the seamstresses and tailors can be with making sure their designs are just-so. 

 

Once, when he was small, he remembers Ada having to wait nearly two summers- _No_. He pushes that memory away, trying to quickly staunch the wave of pain which rises in him. 

 

“I suspect so,” the _ellon_ turns to his books, runs a finger down the spine of one of them, “if we pay them well enough. Don’t worry, I have enough stored away to pay for it.”

 

Abruptly, his brother’s voice speaks angrily into his ear. _“He looks only to gather more wealth in his pocket!”_

 

_Does Belathon seek to gain wealth?_

 

Though Legolas has only ever heard him speak of helping his people, the call of coin and jewels is one that even the wisest of his people struggle to resist. He casts an uncertain look over the tall _ellon_. He is fair, and his brow wide and expressive; every movement he makes is as the rippling of a stream, or the easy sway of tree branches. Could it be possible that he suffers from the song of greed?

 

Resolution settles in his chest. _No_ \- never in all of his speeches, nor in the way he has spoken to him, has the Silvan ever given a hint that he desires riches above the safety and prosperity of their people. _Lhosben has been wrong before_ , he reminds himself, _and so he must be now. It does no good for me to think on this; not when Belathon has put so much faith in my leaving the Halls._

 

“So?” Belathon raises his dark head, catches his gaze. “Is the little prince satisfied with what I have planned?”

 

Though a small part of him bristles at being called such a diminutive name, Legolas nods. “Yes. But- the clothes will arrive tomorrow eve, in a satchel?”

 

The Silvan gives a curt nod, his jaw muscles flexing as he looks to the door. “Correct. I will place a map within, and of course the message you are to deliver.”

 

_The map to lead me through the forest!_ The world grows bright around him, and he feels as though light has at last broken through the stone walls and spins the world to pure sunlight. He sees the forest stretched before him, her red and gold branches bobbing and creaking as he passes by. Underfoot, the fallen leaves crunch and soften his footprints so that he is near floating.  He has no fear in his heart; his _fae_ pulses and dances as though it is a part of the great Song of the forest, and the branches tickle his skin as he passes, urging him to stay-

 

“-Legolas? Do you hear me?”

 

He blinks, and the light filters away until he is again left in the room, surrounded only by small speckles of light and shadows pressing in on him. “Sorry.”

 

A look of impatience crosses Belathon’s face, tightens his jaw. “I was only saying that you ought to leave, if you wish to remain in the good graces of your tutor.”

 

Badhron! Alarm races through him, makes his blood freeze. Hopefully his tutor has been asleep the entirety he has been away, and has not yet noted how long he has been away for. “Yes, that would be a good idea.” 

 

Belathon escorts him from his room and they begin to head back towards the royal wing of the Halls. But something halts them- the entire cavern is drenched in silence.

 

“What has happened?” Legolas questions one of Maeasson’s fair-haired apprentices as he and Belathon stop by the kitchens. Anxiety makes the fine hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and he feels as though he stands directly beneath a stormcloud and awaits the deadly strike of lightening. 

 

The elleth shakes her golden head, and gestures out to the centre of the cave with a spatular, where the throne of the King lies. “The King has been interrogating the leader of the _naugrim_ \- it does not go well.”

 

And then- Legolas hears it. That deep, rumbling voice which is distinctly of stone and earth and jewels, now speaks and- and shames his father before his entire Kingdom!

 

“-would not trust Thranduil, the great King, to honour his word should the end of all days be upon us! _You_ lack all honour!”

 

“Eru Above,” someone hisses behind him, “does that dwarf have no shame?”

 

“He must know that all hear him,” Belathon says quietly, his eyes glittering with a light that Legolas does not understand.

 

Mortification spreads up Legolas’ cheeks as the furious voice continues to slander the King, relentless, _heedless_ of the fury his father no doubt bears upon his face. 

 

“- turned your back! You turned away from the suffering of my people, and the inferno that destroyed us! _Imrid amrâd ursul!”_

 

While no one within the Halls understands the dwarven tongue, Legolas feels his ears burn all the same. 

 

“Well!” Huffs a growling voice; it Maessaon, and his cheeks are lit as though he stands beside his brazier. “We all knew those hairy little _naugrim_ had no manners, and now their leader proves it! _Tolo_ , you three. This feast will not cook itself.”

 

“But to speak so to our King-” one _ellon_ turns to his master, eyes narrowed in anger. “I ought to run that little creature through with my knife, teach him what it is to slander Thranduil _Aran_ before his people!” 

 

Even though their bond wavers, lies untouched for days, there comes a rise of rage from his father, as though he is a predator with an unslakable urge for blood-

 

The angry clatter of a fresh pan of roasted vegetables falling upon the bench-tops pulls him away from the burning anger which twists his _fae_. 

 

Maeasson glowers at his apprentice. “ _Ai,_ and what would that accomplish? Are we not supposed to be the wiser race, the one Eru Himself granted with long life and longer patience? Let the King sort out that creature- he is not one to abide such words being flung at him.”

 

“ _Tolo_ , Legolas. We must return” A touch from Belathon to his shoulder urges him onward, away from the kitchens. The Silvan leaves him once they reach the royal chambers, hesitating before the turn in the corridor, ever cautious not to be seen by the guards who stand at attention at each door. His eyes turn clear as water in the weak sunlight, but his glance is full of meaning. 

 

Butterflies fill Legolas’ stomach as he makes his way back to his study, nodding carefully at the guards who stand there. _Tomorrow, in less than the time it takes for anor to cycle the sky, I will be out in the forest!_  

 

“I have returned, Badhron,” he calls, stepping into the study. Only, the figure who rises from the desk is not his wise tutor.

 

“Ah, Legolas,” Lhosben gives him a tentative smile. He is dressed in a silver and white tunic and soft leather boots, clothing he would wear only around his family. A silver circlet pressing into his dusky brow is the only sign of formality.

 

Even so, Legolas’ step falters from surprise. “B-Brother,” he immediately gives a bow, mind racing. _What is he doing here, in my chambers? Has Badhron said something to him about my leaving to visit Galion?_ “I did not expect to see you here…”

 

“Yes, well,” Lhosben’s eyes are warm, the dark irises gleaming under heavy black lashes. “I hope it is not an inconvenience to send away Badhron, but I wished to speak with you.”

 

“Now?” Legolas cannot stop himself from glancing about him, his skin prickling under the considerably warmer gaze of the Crown Prince. It isn’t like Lhosben to chase his tutor away when he knows Legolas is in his lessons. 

 

Lhosben steps away from the desk, moves towards him. “Yes, Laes. I- I heard from Adar that you and him had… a spat of sorts, yester-eve, and wanted to see if you were well.”

 

_A spat?_ A swirling mix of anger and humiliation rises to Legolas’ cheeks. “I am fine, Lhosben, truly.” The words are stiff in his mouth, like splintered wood. 

 

Ada’s furious voice slams against his _fae,_ and fissures of pain run down his _rhaw_ like ice cracking and splitting under a heavy sun. _“You will stay here and wait out your years as all elflings must”_

 

“I do not wish to speak of it,” he says, and there is an edge in his voice that he cannot hide. 

 

The dusky face of his brother softens, full lips pressing down into a pained line. “ _Laes_ …It is hard, having Adar speak so harshly- I have known it also, as has Annith and Aeglostor. But it does not bode well for you, or others, to dwell on what has been said.”

 

Anger rises in him as swiftly as storm clouds rolling over a hill. “How can I not?” He protests, and to his mortification his voice trembles under the words. “He- He does not _listen_ -”

 

Lhosben raises a hand in objection. “No, Legolas, be assured that he does. It is harder than you think, being both a King and a father. Sometimes those roles intermingle until he cannot differentiate between which is needed.”

 

_He just wants me to feel sorry for him,_ Legolas thinks bitterly. _So that I may forgive and go on, as though I am not as trapped as those naugrim in the dungeons below!_ He pushes these thoughts back, wary of letting them spill out into the air where Lhosben will hear and surely grow angry. 

 

“I do not wish to speak of it any more, Lhosben. Please- let it be.”

 

Something in his face must bring Lhosben to pause, for his slim hand lowers, and the dark head nods slowly. “Very well. But- Legolas…”

 

The sound of his name in his brother’s quiet tones causes him to lift his head up, wait. For the first time he takes in the figure of his brother, and sees the shadows beginning to darken the soft space under his eyes.  _He is miserable with our fighting_ , Legolas realises, and the first tendrils of guilt rise up in his chest and press at their bond, demanding to be seen. _And all because I cannot find any happiness in staying here_. 

 

“If- if you are troubled,” Lhosben says softly, and their bond sings quietly as for a brief moment he allows Legolas to press close to his steady, calm _fae_. “Please- do not think I will not gladly listen, or help you to try and settle your pain.”

 

_I will be giving all of this up, if I leave. Even if it is only for a brief moment within my many years, I do not want to cause him pain._

 

Gently, though his own _fae_ cries out angrily at the action, he pulls away from the soothing touch of his brother’s spirit. “Thank you, brother, but I already have Faervel.” 

 

He drops his gaze, not quite able to bear the weight of that penetrating dark glance, looks to the far wall which is now beginning to dapple with afternoon-heavy light. _It is the forest I want, the light that I wish to feel upon my face, and I will soon have them both_.

 

Lhosben shifts, leans against his desk as though uneasy with the sudden fall of silence. “I must confess that I did not come here just on the basis of seeing if you were well. Adar- well, he has asked me to inform you that your presence is required at tonight’s dinner.”

 

Horror rushes through him, and he immediately takes a step towards the lithe figure. “What? No! I cannot see him- we- we still- I don’t think he will even want to look at me!” _Not after what I said about Aeglostor…_

 

Lhosben is heedless. “That is why I want you to try and put your angry words behind you- so we may have a dinner that does not dissolve into tears, or fury. You must attend,” he says firmly when Legolas opens his mouth to beg an excuse- to say _no I cannot- you do not fully understand-_

 

“Lhosben!” His voice rises, matches the rush of emotions he can feel writhing in his _fae_ , “please- I know I will not be-” He snaps his mouth shut just as the words _attending the Mereth-en-Giliath_ are about to leave his mouth. _Eru_!

 

Lhosben’s dark eyes narrow, this time in irritation. He does not seem to notice his sudden silence, nor the flush climbing up his throat. “No, Legolas. He wishes to speak to all of us tonight, and that means you also.”

 

Grinding his teeth together, Legolas paces across the floor. His boots scuffle against the cold stones, add to the rush of sound. “I- do you know if he will want to speak to me?” It is a foolish, childish question- of course his father will want to speak to him! But then- the memory of how cold, how _remote,_ his father had looked rises in front of his eyes. Perhaps- if he is quiet, and avoids his gaze, his father will not look to him or prod him with questions.

 

“-I presume he will, _Laes_ , else why would he order you to attend the dinner after such a scene transpired between you both?”

 

A flinch runs down his back. Yes- being forced to sit in front of his father will be excruciating. But what is worse is that he will have to do so with Belathon’s plan for escape pressing against his mind, the slow trickle of time beating in his chest. One tiny slip could so easily reveal the treachery he has involved himself in, and his father will not be in any mood to accomodate his excuses. His fury- well, it might just shake the very stones of their Halls to their core.

 

_Eru, I must be careful_. His pacing slows until he stands once more before his brother. 

 

“I am sorry, _Laes_ , I truly am. But there is nothing I can do to dissuade him.”

 

The air pools in his lungs, eases the anxiety that jitters in his bones. “No, it isn’t your fault,” he allows. _I just have to keep quiet at dinner, not allow anything to stir me._

 

The clear gaze of his brother travels to the entrance of his study. “Now, _tithen muindor_ , forgive me but I must return to Emlinel. She needs my help sorting through some several dozen scrolls.”

 

“Scrolls?” Legolas walks with his brother to the doorway, pauses there. 

 

Lhosben gives a grimace. “On _naugrim_ and the line of Durin. It is exhausting.”

 

_Badhron had been looking for the same thing!_ He recalls. And then- _Durin_! Thorin Oakenshield was of the line of Durin. _That is why his name had been so tantalisingly familiar_. 

 

So his father had not just any random group of dwarves in his dungeons, but one whose line descended from Aule Maker of Hammers and Guard of Forges himself! 

 

Tentatively, for he never knows if he will receive an answer on private information, he asks, “what are you looking for, exactly?”

 

Lhosben gives him an unreadable look. “I am afraid Adar would not wish me to say, not even to you. He has only entrusted the best scholars to involve themselves in research, and as such I must return to it.”

 

“Oh,” as expected, Lhosben avoids the subject. Legolas looks to the corridor, the emptiness of the rooms, and it sends an ache through him. “I- I suppose I will see you at dinner.”

 

His brother places a hand on his shoulder. The touch is soft and not completely unwelcome, and lasts only a heartbeat. “You will. Until then, enjoy having a break.”

 

A break? “What?” Legolas eyes his brother as he begins to walk back to his chambers. “What about my lesson with Badhron?”

 

The easy stride of his brother halts as Lhosben turns to glance back. In the weak light of the afternoon, one side of his face is painted to show his full lips curled up at the edges. “I believe he has retired early to rest.”

 

Warmth makes his chest swell. His brother has put aside a few sweet, uninterrupted hours for him to spend as he wishes. 

 

“ _Le fael, muindor_.” He calls, but Lhosben only raises a hand before turning into his own chambers. The wooden door swings closed with a quiet thud, and Legolas is left alone.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin: Tolo- come   
> Laes- baby   
> Naugrim- dwarves  
> Le fael- my thanks   
> Muindor- dear brother   
> Fae- spirit


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Legolas visits the kitchens, and Thranduil has a big announcement to make, which ruffles many feathers.

At first Legolas does not know what to do with himself. The thought of having the whole afternoon to himself is thrilling, but he halts upon the stone floor. _Should I run down to visit Annith at the barracks? Or should I go to the kitchens?_

 

A well-timed rumble of his stomach answers his question. With his _fae_ light in his chest, he heads down the winding corridors of his Halls to the kitchens. Like much of the King’s Halls, the kitchens are under open ceilings and are easily accessible for all, no matter where they live. Placed on the lowest level of the Halls, they are joined up with the many storage-rooms which house much of the season’s vegetables and dried meats collected from the well-tended gardens and the fairer parts of the forest. With many elegant windows carven in the walls, the various scents of the cooks’ work continually reach all within the guarded realm and allows for natural light to filter in and brighten up the busy space. 

 

Now, the kitchens are overflowing with more than 3 dozen _edhil_ at various stations, and Legolas has to stand aside to allow two muscled _ellyth_ carting entire sacks of flour over their shoulders to pass into the kitchens. 

 

“ _Mae govannen_ Maeasson!” Legolas greets happily as he steps into the busy rooms.

 

The red-haired cook lifts his head from where he has been stirring a bubbling pot of venison soup.

 

“ _Mae govannen_ , Prince Legolas. What do you want?” The rough voice is disgruntled, but Legolas knows the old Cook well and can read the look of welcome behind his eyes. While his features do not express anything close to a smile, his eyes clear and soften upon realising who stands in his kitchen. Maeasson has been around since Lhosben was an elfling himself, and has served each of the children of Thranduil with the same irritable fondness. 

 

“I was wondering, well, if you had any food to spare?” He shoots a hopeful look at the Cook, turns to wave at an apprentice who calls out a greeting.

 

The broad-shouldered _ellon_ rolls his eyes at his request, but gestures to a golden-haired _elleth_ from earlier hours. “Nelwen, fetch this troublesome _laes_ some bread and cheese.”

 

Despite standing at her bench with her arms buried in the guts of a wild hare, she still turns and after wiping her hands on the corner of her bloodied apron, hurries off at her Master’s words. Legolas smiles gratefully up at the red-haired _ellon_. 

 

“ _Ivon_ , boy, don’t bat those big eyes at me! Go sit on the bench over there until she brings you your food,” The Cook grumbles, and turns back to his soup. 

 

Dutifully, Legolas sits down on the rough wooden bench which is pushed against the west side of the kitchen and serves as a respite for those within the kitchens. Glancing about the kitchens, his eyes are immediately drawn to the piles of potatoes and vegetables that remain unpeeled or in the process of being diced and cut.  No doubt with _Mereth-en-Giliath_ tomorrow the kitchens will be busy preparing and cooking all the food needed for such a glorious feast far into the night and maybe even until _anor_ peeks out from her bed of clouds. 

 

“Would you like some help with peeling some vegetables?” He calls politely. An _ellon_ carrying two heavy pots of vegetables rushes past him, huffing a polite greeting and neatly dodging the large bulk of the cook. 

 

Maeasson scowls back up at him, tossing back an unruly strand of red hair which has creeped out of its tight braid. “And have your tiny fingers cut off in the process and the King breathing down my neck? No, I and my apprentices are fine. Now- someone fetch me the chopping board for the carrots- no, I need the onions cut, not diced!”

 

His fingers are not tiny! Legolas swallows down the indignation as he glances down at the digits, uncurls them. They are perfectly proportioned for an _ellon_ of his size!

 

The apprentice Nelwen reappears from the storage rooms with a platter ladened with the requested cheese and bread. Up close she appears weary from her task, but still manages to blink kindly at him. “Here, my prince.”

 

“Thank you,” he smiles at her as he accepts the platter and eagerly bites into the snacks. A muffled groan escapes him; the cheese has a strong tang which melts into his tongue and explodes across his senses. Similarly, the thick, nutty texture of the bread only seems to add to the heady taste of the soft cheese. 

 

A small smile presses against Nelwen’s lips. “Good?”

 

He nods, already reaching for another piece. “Wery! I ha’n’t eaten lunch, so-” he swallows his mouthful, recalling that it is rude to eat and talk at the same time, especially for a prince. “It is perfect.”

 

The _elleth’s_ soft brown eyes crinkle in amusement. “That is good to hear, my prince.”

 

“Nelwen!” The short-tempered cook looks over and sees that his apprentice still talks with Legolas. “We don’t have all _yen_ to stand around and talk! Move and get to the hares before they spring up from their deathbeds and escape!”

 

Nelwen’s eyes slide over to where her master stands, mittened hands on his hips, and she gives him a quick nod before hurrying back to her station. 

 

Legolas dutifully stifles a smile by shoving more bread and cheese into his mouth. The past conversation with his brother seems easy to push back into the corners of his mind when he has a full stomach and plenty of company. 

 

As he’d hoped, Maeasson eventually relents and allows him to grate some cheese, and then once he sees he does not mortally wound himself, moves him on to peeling potatoes and carrots. 

 

And so he happily passes the rest of the afternoon grating, peeling and eventually (under the shrewd eye of the cook) cutting vegetable after vegetable and chatting to those who pass him.

* * *

Evening descends far quicker than Legolas would like. He can feel the Song of the forest growing quiet as _anor’s_ journey through the sky begins to wane, preparing for another time of shadows and creatures that only stir in the dark.

 

“ _Ernil_ Legolas?” 

 

He looks up from the pile of sliced carrots to see a guard clattering their way down the stairs to the kitchens. They stand stiff-backed and resolute in the doorway. “My prince, the Lady Faervel has requested your presence in your chambers urgently.”

 

“Go on,” Maeasson responds gruffly, straightening up from where he has been bent over tiny pastries the size of his thumb. “You’ve done plenty here.”

 

“Are you sure? I’m happy to stay a little longer…” Legolas says carefully, slowly tugging off the apron one of the apprentices had lent him. It has been so nice just to put his mind towards rhythmic, menial work and to spend time amongst other _edhil_ , and he does not wish at all to attend tonight’s dinner. 

 

One muscled hand waves him towards the door. “Yes I’m sure! Go, before your lady aunt sets us all on fire for keeping you!”

 

Reluctantly, Legolas leaves his station and bids farewell to the kitchen staff. A sudden surge of pain strikes in his _fae_ as he looks at all the familiar faces, their smiles, sharp words and busy hands. _This might be the last time I spend in the kitchens, at least for a few days._

 

_But it isn’t forever_ , he tries to reassure himself as he turns and follows the guard up the stairs and towards the royal wing. _And I will come home to find you all still here_.

The thought is a hollow one, and even though it is true, it still does little to soothe the sudden writhing of nerves in his stomach. 

 

“Here, my prince,” the guard leads him right to the entrance to his chambers, and a thrill of recognition runs up his spine as he spies those familiar bright eyes from behind the stern mask.

 

“Tervon?”

 

“My prince,” the guard smiles down at him from underneath his impassive mask. His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “If I were you, I would tread carefully. Your Lady Aunt is-”

 

The warning is cut off as the bond between he and his aunt shivers, and the dark head of his aunt swings around the doorway. Her chestnut eyes flash at him, relief slipping across her face. “Laeslas? _Ivon_ , I was about to go mad with worry! Dinner with your father is in less than a half-hour.”

 

“Sorry, aunt.” Legolas gives Tervon a grin before hurrying in to his chamber. 

 

Luckily his aunt does not seem to be angry at his impromptu disappearance; her eyes are softer than usual, and search his face carefully. _Looking_ , he realises, _for traces of pain over the fight between my father and I_. 

 

The thought causes a dull ache to form between his cage of ribs. Resolute as he has been to push his pain away, he knows it lingers still between the bond with his father, and now it flares like a dull ember stirred back to life. 

 

“Are you well, _Laes_?” She asks quietly. 

 

“I am,” he says, and pushes aside the ache between his ribs.

 

“Lhosben told me that he had arranged for the afternoon off for you, but he did not tell me where you went off to” Faervel says after a moment of studying his face. Her hands are cool as she grasps his hand to pull him over to his bed. Several brightly coloured tunics lie upon its sheets, staring back up at him tauntingly. They are formal tunics, he notes with dismay, each and every one of them with some sort of fine embroidery and stitching in gold or green. Each have the stiff-necked collar he so hates. 

 

And, he glances fully at his aunt for the first time, she too wears a fine blue gown with a silver underdress and long, trailing sleeves. 

 

“Aunt,” he protests, “do I have to wear them with the collar?” 

 

“Yes you do,” she says, pushing a green and grey tunic towards him. “And you ignore me. Where were you?”

 

“Just the kitchens,” he pulls off his tunic and slides down into the fine, silk tunic. The fabric clings to his skin, as close as a touch; he feels constricted, as though when he breathes it too breathes with him. He hates it. “I was helping Maeasson with the feast tomorrow.” 

 

“Mhmm…” Faervel helps him with his collar, and then with quick fingers undoes the two braids that hang from either side of his face and reties them. 

 

“Ouch!” He yelps as her fingers catch in a knot. “Why- why do I have to wear this?”

 

“Because your father wishes to speak with the whole family tonight,” his aunt mumbles as she holds a hair tie in her mouth. “And so he requests that we all look our best. Stop wriggling!”

 

“But it’s just us,” Legolas complains. “Not with some council _ellon_ or _elleth_.”

 

“Don’t ask me to explain your father, child. Do you think I also like parading around our private chambers in such a restricting gown?” She gives his braids a tug. “There, finished. Now take those old boots off and put the better pair on.”

 

“They’re not old,” Legolas protests, “they’re just…worn.”

 

“Tired,” his aunt quips. “Ready for throwing out. Hurry up, Laeslas! We must go soon!”

 

Yanking on the boots, Legolas rushes after his aunt as she sweeps out of their chambers with a rustle of silk.

 

They reach the entrance to the formal dining room after a few minutes of turning down several corridors. Faervel’s step is quick, no matter the weight of her gown’s train, and Legolas has to trot to keep up with her as they reach the wooden doors which lead into the dining room.

Against his skin his heart begins to kick, and his stomach churns. Behind these doors is his father- and everything he has said. 

 

_“I-I do not wish to see you ever again!”_

 

A heady mix of fear and nerves clasps at his throat, chokes off his breath. More than what has been said, he must remember to hold his tongue! He must not give himself away!

 

“Aunt,” he abruptly reaches out and catches her trailing, moonlit sleeve. The silk fabric is cool under the pads of his fingers, like the touch of early autumn snow. “What- what do I say? To Ada?”

 

Farevel’s eyes widen just a fraction, falling on his fingers which grasp at her sleeve. “Just follow me. He will not look to fight with you, not in front of the entire family.”

 

The carved oaken doors swing open with a groan, and light spills out to greet them. Just beyond that is the familiar table, but now extended several lengths to accomodate near a dozen _edhil_. Most of whom are- not his family?

 

One familiar yet unexpected face is the Lady Elegessil, dressed in a fine gown of green, and who stands to greet them. “Announcing the Lady Faervel, She Who Walks Amongst Trees, sister of She Who Walks in Eternal Starlight, and the Prince Legolas, He Who Brings Light.” 

 

“ _Ivon’s sweet-smelling hair_ ,” Faervel mutters out of the corner of her mouth, “what is Elegessil doing here?” Her words trail off as there is a ripple of red and silver silk, and the King rises up from the head of the table. 

 

His grey eyes travel first to his aunt, and then onto Legolas for a brief heartbeat. Traitorously, he feels his _fae_ tug with longing within his chest as their gazes meet, and the deep, familiar voice reaches their ears. 

 

“Welcome, Lady Faervel. Welcome, Prince Legolas. I bid you both to join us at my table.” 

 

Legolas follows his aunt as she gives the King a respectful bow, and then moves to take their seats. Mercifully, someone has placed him beside a stormy-eyed Annith and opposite Lhosbend who offers him a quick grin.

 

“Laeslas” his sister’s lips curve into a smile, but the tempest does not completely vanish from her face. “It is good to see you.”

 

“And you, Annith.” Legolas replies, sliding down into his seat with care not to tear the ridiculous tunic. Even as he nudges the creaking chair closer to the table, he can feel the weight of his father’s gaze on him. It makes his stomach churn and their bond shiver with the want to reach out and plead forgiveness- 

 

“Why in _Ivon’s_ great green Arda are there so many councilmen and women here?” Lhosbend’s irritated voice distracts Legolas from the uncomfortable eyes which prickle at his skin. “Did you know?”

 

“No,” he says earnestly, surprised himself. “Faervel said that it was supposed to be just us.”

 

“That’s what Adar said,” the fair-haired _ellon_ agrees with a short nod. He looks just as uncomfortable as Legolas feels, dressed in a tight grey tunic with tiny silver leaves delicately embroidered into a stiff-necked collar. “What about you, Annith?”

 

Beside him, his sister gives a shrug but remains silent. She too wears a grey gown with light blue edging, and more importantly, a finely wrought silver circlet and an expression that suggests someone had to forcibly shove it down onto her dark head. 

 

“Well, I just wanted some peace and quiet to eat my food and then leave, but I guess we won’t be seeing that until the next _yen_ if Lord Míwon is here…” Lhosbend grumbles. 

 

Legolas turns to the head of the table. Sure enough, near the front of the table sits the ancient _ellon_ in an old-fashioned robe of red and white. Beside him is the Lady Elegessil, and the dour-faced Lord Arodon. The three favourite advisors of the King, all of whom have known his father for many _yen_ before Legolas himself was born. 

 

_Lhosbend is right. What_ are _they all doing here, when it is supposed to be just a family dinner?_ This question bothers him until the second course of dinner, and fear prickles at his skin, keeps his mouth shut. He barely manages to utter more than a few sentences when Emlinel inquires after his lessons; every muscle in his body is tense, and his tongue is heavy with the weight of treachery.  Throughout it, Legolas hardly touch the platters of food he is offered. Not only is he still full from all the cheese and bread he had snacked on earlier in the kitchens, but the constant sound of his own heartbeat in his ears makes eating near impossible.

 

“‘Nith?” He turns towards his sister, who has finished her two courses and gazes around the table with narrowed eyes. “Do you want my food?”

 

One sun-darkened hand extends and grasps the rim of his plate, pulling it silently towards her. Instinct warns him that his sister is irritated by far more than having to wear such finery before her family; carefully, he nudges their bond, and finds himself nearly choking from the roar of anger that slams against his _fae_. Annith is furious in such a way that he has felt only on rare occasions, and he quickly pulls away. 

 

Observance takes him to look upon the bright-eyed figure that sits at the head of the table. His father wears a seasonal crown of berries and autumn leaves, and an expression as unchangeable as the face of a mountain. A goblet rests easily between long fingers, but not once does Legolas see his father take a sip. The sturdy, ancient _fae_ which usually remains buried now beats against the pale shell of his _rhaw_ , lashing against the feeble cage.

 

_Something is deeply wrong_ , he concludes, pushing his fingers under his legs to stop them from trembling, _and not just with Annith_. Looking closely, he spies the shadows that are more difficult to conceal, ones which edge around his father’s storm-grey eyes and pull at the fair skin. His father is tired, and more than usual. But from what? 

 

He isn’t so foolish as to think that _he_ is the cause of such exhaustion. His father has dealt with enough opposition from Aeglostor to no longer be affected by even _him_ throwing angry words to his face. Could it be the _naugrim_ , perhaps? But why would dwarves be the cause of such exhaustion? Even despite Thorin Oakenshield’s humiliating claims of dishonour and cruelty, was the little group of dwarves truly responsible for the near-bruises under those cold eyes? 

 

A sharp jab from Annith draws him out of his observations, and he looks to see that all the plates have been cleared from the table. The King again rises from his seat. 

 

“I must thank all of you for attending such a dinner,” his father says, voice mild as a spring breeze. “And for my family who are willing to sit through another time of politics and announcements.”

 

Politics? A murmur runs across the dining table. Announcements?

 

The King continues after a brief nod towards them. “Yes, I will speak of politics today, and to those I hold within my trust.”

 

Daring a glance at Annith, Legolas finds her gaze to be as hot as live flame and unmoving from their father. His _fae_ trembles, anticipating trouble. 

 

“After many hours of consideration with my council, and with the advice of my heir, the Crown Prince Lhosben, I have decided to immediately withdraw all forces from the south of the forest and instead focus on protecting what forest remains untouched by the Shadow.”

 

_Withdraw?_ The word rings through his head, followed quickly by a disbelief that steals his breath. Withdraw from their own forest? Leave _Eryn Galen_ unprotected to the darkness which spreads?  Legolas cannot believe his ears.

  
“Time and time again I have had to watch as those devoted to the service of the crown and our Realm journey into those southern reaches of our once beloved woods and return a shadow of themselves, or with their _fae_ fled to the Halls of He who Gathers Souls. Now I say this; no more.” 

 

Silence surrounds the table, as though a wolf has grabbed them all by their throats and refuses to allow speech. 

 

It is Faervel who is the first to shake off the wolf, and she rises to her feet with fury driven deep into her face. “You, Thranduil _Hir_ , would leave our forest to die slowly and without the protection of we who have lived here for uncountable seasons? How can you desert she who gives us life, all we need?”

 

A look of displeasure crosses his father’s face. “Lady Faervel, I ask you to please-”

 

Faervel cuts him off with a slash of her hand, and scandalised gasps rise up from all seated. No one, not even Aeglostor, whose hatred for their father runs deeper than he can fully understand, has dared to interrupt the King, not for many _yen_!

 

His aunt continues, undeterred. “A King’s duty is not _just_ to his people, but to the land he rules his people on! You would be giving up not just that which we have sworn to protect, but our very existence!”

 

Legolas feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle at her words. Yet even still, pride and admiration for his brave aunt makes his _fae_ swell. There is a long pause where the entire table seems to be holding its breath, waiting for the rage of their King to come crashing down upon their heads. 

 

Yet his father- _his father simply bows his head_. “I understand your words, and your fear, Lady Faervel. These concerns have all been raised, but I will not be dissuaded from my course.”

 

There is a sudden screech of wood upon stone. Annith stands, her face twisted with equal parts fury and disbelief. Though she rests her hands on the table, Legolas can see the strong digits tremble with fury.

 

“I do not believe this,” she hisses to the remote, golden figure who stands silent and waiting. “You who once stood and faced the great serpents of the North now quail and shudder before a _Shadow_ -”

 

“A Shadow” his father’s voice is low and tightly controlled, but nonetheless holds the bite of cold winter winds, the flash of deadly teeth that silences even Annith, “which destroys our forest even with all the force of my power and that of my people to stop it.”

 

His sister bristles within her silver gown. “You do not understand- we cannot simply give in to it!”

 

“Annith,” from across the table Lhosben tries to interject, his cheeks flushed at the growing argument unfolding before all, “ _muinthel_ -”

 

“ _Baw_!” The _elleth_ slashes a hand in the air, glowers at those at the table. Her furious black gaze burns even onto Legolas, and he flinches away, shrinks against his chair. It is no use touching their bond- she is like a tempest, a howling creature unleashed, and her fury will not be tamed until she deems it so. 

 

Legolas cannot help but admire her- his furious sister, who refuses to give in. _She truly is fierce_ , he thinks, recalling Belathon’s admiring words. _I would not want to cross her_. 

 

“You may all sit here like cowards,” she snarls, and this time her gaze is solely on the tall figure that is their father, “but be assured that when it comes to face the Shadow, it will be my sword which will defend all of _Eryn Galen_!” 

 

And without a care for the uproar she has caused, nor the way Legolas’ heart beats quickly for her boldness, Annith turns on her heel and storms from the dining room. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wew, that was a long one! Hope y'all enjoy the fruits of my labour lol. 
> 
> Sindarin: Fae- spirit   
> Rhaw- body   
> Yen- a thousand years or so   
> Edhel/Edhil- elf/elves  
> Ellon/elleth- male/female elf  
> Ellyth- female elves   
> Baw- no  
> Muinthel- dear sister


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the night of Legolas' escape finally arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick head's up; in this chapter there is an attempt of non-consentual breaching of another's mind, and a character appearing almost as though they are intoxicated. If this makes you uncomfortable in any way, please tread carefully.

Faervel does not speak as they return to their chambers, not even when Legolas questions her. She remains in what he presumes is deep contemplation, marching ahead with such speed that Legolas has to trot to keep up. 

 

He too is stunned by the announcement made by his father. Leave the forest whose Song greets him from dawn till dusk, and who soothes him when he wakes at night unable to sleep and wracked with longing to walk among her great branches and mighty boughs? Let her Song be swallowed up in shadows by that dark spirit he knows only from old tales? 

 

His _fae_ shivers, as though repulsed by the very thought. _It is not in my blood to let the forest die. To allow a force to steal away all that is good and light- it is wrong_. 

 

He understands now why Belathon is so desperate to change things. If his father, though given council by both Lhosben and various _edhil_ , could not understand how unnatural it was to leave the forest to a cruel and painful fate, how could he understand Belathon and many other _edhil’s_ longing to be allowed from the King’s Halls?

 

_But I will change this- won’t I? By visiting the town upon the Lake, I will make sure my people will have a better life- will be able to help the forest._

 

_And the King- the King might be proud of me._

 

But this desire for his father’s approval- should it hold so much sway over his heart? What matters more to him- the smile of his father, or the wellbeing of his people?

 

It is a thought that refuses to leave him, and even with the promise of escape racing through his blood he lies awake until the first of _anor's_ rosy fingers begin to paint the sky. 

 

* * *

Though the entire stretch of the King’s Halls is buzzing with excitement for the _Mereth-en-Giliath_ , Legolas finds that he can hardly make himself rise from his bed.

 

His stomach lurches as though unbalanced when he eventually persuades himself to get up. Uneasily, he grasps the bedpoles to steady himself. A slow breath in and outhelps him to centre his nervous _fae_ and brush against the Song of the forest, now tantalisingly close.

 

_Today_ \- that word persistently bounces around in his head and refuses him the ability to swallow more than a few mouthfuls of porridge when at breakfast- _today I leave my father’s Halls!_

 

Yet more than that, he is also filled with a distinct, unusual terror. One that makes him jump at shadows, flinch at the casual touch of his aunt’s hand upon his shoulder. All that night his mind had been taunting him with the thoughts of what could wrong. He imagined at last walking amongst the green fringes of the forest, only to find that Belathon had betrayed him and left him with neither map nor message. Or worse- reaching Laketown and stating his purpose only to receive silence or the refusal to take him seriously. The Leader’s cold eyes seeing immediately through his disguise and declaring that _you are clearly an elfling and we do not deal with children of the Elves, now go back to your King!_

 

_“_ You are worse than yesterday,” now recovered and bright-eyed, tutor Badhron is dismayed with his inability to concentrate on more than a few sentences. “Come, Prince Legolas, what has gotten into you?”

 

_You would not believe me if I told you_ , Legolas thinks. Instead, he only shakes his head, trying not to slump against his desk. “I am- just tired.” 

 

_It is not quite a lie_ , he notes guiltily, trying in vain to quell the unease that grows in his stomach. 

 

“Well, you are young” his tutor says resolutely, “you can easily spring back from late nights to jump right back into your lessons.”

 

“May we-” desperate to get away from the history of Doriath, Legolas thinks quickly for another topic his tutor might humour him with, “may we look into the history of dwarves? Just for today?”

 

“Dwarves?” Badhron’s prominent nose scrunches up as though he has smelled something horrid. “Why would you want to learn about them?”

 

“Because there are 13 of them in our dungeons, and I know nothing about them,” Legolas responds quickly. Badhron responds best to a change in topics when he finds out that Legolas knows nothing and he himself can talk for hours upon the topic without interruption. 

 

“Well not many do…” his tutor trails off uncertainly, glancing about him as though uncomfortable. “In truth, my prince, I do not know if I should tell you this, but they are no ordinary dwarves who your most noble father holds in his prison.”

 

“Really?” Legolas stretches his eyes wide. He knows about Thorin Oakenshield, of course, and how he is a descendent of Durin, but otherwise nothing more. 

 

Badhron nods. “Their leader is a dwarf of high standing among his people, whose blood travels back to the first of their line, Durin the Deathless. One could almost say that the leader has a claim to the long forgotten throne of Erebor…”

 

Erebor? Surprise makes him lift his head. “Do you mean the dwarf kingdom which was overtaken by a wyrm?” He was only a few summers old when it happened- truly an elfling- but the story of a great dragon descending so close to _Eryn Galen_ was one that was spoken of ever since he was old enough to listen.

 

“The same,” his tutor says. “But of course, he is in our prisons now, and so has no chance of escape or of reclaiming his throne. The King likes to be cautious even so, and so has had a team of scholars researching the _naugrim_. Has he not spoken of it to you?”

 

The question is meant to be harmless, but even so Legolas stiffens. His father never bothers with discussing important matters, not when with him. Not even when he asks. And now? Now he will most likely never speak to him again. “He- he does not speak of business when with us.”

 

“Of course, a most wise decision, keeping the weighty business of Kingship and the task of fatherhood seperate.” His tutor says with admiration clear in his voice. “But let me inform you- the leader of that gaggle of dwarves is none other than Thorin Oakenshield, and one whose claim to the throne of the Lonely Mountain has no equal. He says that he journeys to visit his kin, but the King thought a more prosaic task was at hand, and so, to be truthful, do I.” 

 

“You mean, he wishes to reclaim the throne? Even when the dragon may be still alive?” Were dwarves always this stubborn? How could Thorin Oakenshield wish to claim his throne when a dragon still lived? And lead a company of his fellow dwarves into danger while doing so? 

 

“The dragon has not been seen for nigh on six and ten years, by the reckoning of mortals,” Badhron says carefully. “Some suspect that it may even be dead.”

 

“And- and what do you think?” A weight settles in his chest, one that is impossible to shake off. Even though he knows that the dwarves are safely locked away in the dungeons, that there is no hope of their escape, that the dragon either sleeps on in its mountain or lies rotting on a pile of dwarven coins, his fey blood whispers to him, warns him that _it is not true- some things must come to pass_ \- 

 

Badhron looks at him, and his grey eyes are grave. “No true wounds were landed on the drake when it invaded the dwarven kingdom, so why would such a foul beast give itself unto death? No, my prince, I do not think it is dead. I think it only sleeps, and waits for a time to rise up again and douse the world in its fire.”

 

* * *

The day passes achingly slow, and even with Badhron jumping from topic to topic, Legolas finds that he cannot focus or sit still. His legs jitter under him, and his heart picks up speed at even the thought of the forest. _I want to run and never look back, I want to walk among trees and feel the breeze through my hair. I want to look and see only sunlight._

 

Eventually Badhron relents and packs up his lessons for the day, uttering the excuse that he must prepare for the feast. “The perfect robe takes a long time to choose, my prince, especially for something so glorious as the _Mereth-en-Giliath_. You will understand when you attend your first feast.”

 

Legolas is all too happy to nod at his tutor’s words and wave goodbye. By now, even the very thought of eating makes his stomach churn, and he paces anxiously within his chambers. 

 

_I must remember to slip away only when the signal is given_ , he recalls, glancing to the water-clock. _And I must not tarry by the gates- as soon as they are open I must run and not look back, and stop only once I am amidst the woods_.  He is so nervous that when a rustle comes by his bed, he spins around and prepares to face accusations of betrayal. Of course, no one stands there, but he still feels as though he is a flighty young colt, ready to bolt at the slightest sound.

 

Faervel eventually comes into his rooms to prepare and get his opinion on her gowns. She tries on two beautiful gowns, one the shade of rubies and with sleeves of ebony, and the other a pale purple with trimmings of grey that make her eyes shine. They choose the purple gown, and she smiles for the first time that day. 

 

“I hope you will not be too lonely, here in your chamber.” His aunt comments as she stands by his mirror and adjusts a pretty crown of wildflowers atop her head. 

 

Legolas swallows, pushes down the knot in his throat that tightens as every hour passes. “N-No. I will be fine, really.” 

 

“Well, you know I can return early if you wish,” she says, and frowns as a flower refuses to submit to her touch. 

 

This is exactly what he does not want. Legolas summons his courage, and offers her an encouraging smile. “It is fine, aunt. You should enjoy tonight. I will be fine- I’ve decided to help Maeasson down in the kitchens with dessert, if I get too bored.”

 

“Oh, alright.” Faervel doesn’t even look at him. “Just keep out of the way of his knives…” 

 

A knock comes at the door, startling both Legolas and his aunt. “Laeslas, Lady Faervel? It is Lhosbend.” 

 

Legolas opens the wooden door, and is greeted by the sight of the fair-haired _ellon_ dressed in- Purple?

 

“You look…bright,” Legolas offers, and the tension in his stomach melts as Lhosbend shoots him a scowl, colour beginning to creep up his throat. He wears a purple robe, trimmed with gold to match his pale hair, and looks as though he could attract every bee within the Kingdom. 

 

“Yes, I know, I look ridiculous, no need to rub it in. Is your Lady Aunt nearly ready?”

 

“Faervel?” What does Lhosbend want with his aunt?

 

“Yes, the same.” Lhosbend rolls his eyes, and explains in a rush of embarrassed words. “Naneth wanted me to make sure that she did not go unescorted to the feast…and happened to find out what she would be wearing. She wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

 

Legolas grins at the thought of tiny Emlinel forcing her son to wear the monstrosity of gown. “Well, at least you won’t be lost in the crowd.” 

 

“Shut up, _orch_!” 

 

His aunt soon appears, and greets Lhosbend only with a raised eyebrow. With a distracted pat to his shoulder, she says goodbye to Legolas and allows the golden-haired _ellon_ to walk her towards the feast. 

 

Legolas watches them go, his _fae_ aching. _Will this be the last time I see you?_ He wonders as the heather-shaded figures turn the corner and vanish from his sight. _Will you be glad to see me come home, or furious?_

 

The thought of his aunt’s fury leaves him not just anxious and eager for the night’s events, but also guilty. Faervel, who has shared his every moment, watched him walk and caught him when he fell, has no knowledge of the secret- the betrayal- he keeps close to him. She has no idea that he will soon be escaping the Halls and leaving her watchful eye. 

 

_But then- won’t she be proud? To see me deliver a message and return triumphant?_ The thought does not console him, nor soothe the guilt that itches under his skin. So he instead turns his mind to what lies ahead. 

 

_Soon_ , he thinks, returning to his chambers and falling down upon his bed. _Soon, I will be in the forest and walking into the golden light of autumn and then onto the river- and then to the town of Men and…and…_

 

“Laeslas?”

 

Even amongst the unexpected melody of sleep, Legolas knows that voice. Eyes clearing, he bolts upright on his bed and looks to the direction of the voice. 

 

His father stands by the doorway. 

 

“Ada?” He croaks, unable to believe both that he actually fell asleep and that it is his father who stands before him. “What- what are you doing here?” 

 

Ada takes a step into the room, as though he is hesitant- _hesitant_!- and his grey eyes are brighter than Legolas has seen them for days. “I wished to check on you, before I went to the feast. Are you well?”

 

For some strange reason, or perhaps because sleep still clings to his bones and slows his mind, Legolas does not mind that his father’s silvery form stands before him. The pain of their argument only prickles against his mind, as though it were seasons ago. 

 

“I am well,” he says, and _oh_ \- he feels as though he is swimming in light and warmth, he can hardly move. “Are you well?” The question slipping out of him before he can stop himself. Strangely, it does not bother him as it usually would.

 

“I- I mean,” he tries to find his tongue, and flushes when he cannot. “Only- you have been pale of late…”

 

Ada does not smile, but his eyes grow warm. “I am well now. I only wish that I could fix what has passed between us.” 

 

He stands very close now, almost near enough to touch. This close, Legolas’ _fae_ is crying out for joy, leaping within his chest, and their bond thrums happily, welcoming the familiar warmth of his father’s mind. 

 

“It-” he tries to remember what made him so angry, but he is floating and happy under the light of his father’s eyes. Why look back to memories that are painful? 

 

“I don’t…” he offers up a sloppy smile at the shining figure, apologetic. “I can’t seem to remember… but it does not matter. You are here now.”

 

Legolas is fairly certain that if Ada allowed it, if he but leaned a little closer, he would happily fall asleep in his arms. 

 

“I am here,” Ada says gently, and pale fingers brush Legolas’ cheek. The touch is beyond gentle- it is the brush of feathers on his skin, and it makes him want to speak, apologise. 

 

“I-” his tongue is clumsy, heavy in his mouth, and he smiles at it. “I am- I didn’t mean to…”

 

Ada shakes his head. “It is no matter now. But… won’t you tell me what troubles you?” 

 

_Trouble? What troubles me?_ Legolas smiles easily; he feels as though one puff of air could cast him up into the air, or straight into his father’s gaze. All of the anger he has held close to him has disappeared, drawn out of him like the sting of a bee.  “Nothing troubles me,” he says easily. “Nothing…”

 

His father’s gaze sharpens, and the brush of his fingers is no longer so soft. It turns into a firm press of hard digits on his cheeks, digging in until they reach his cheekbones. It does not quite hurt, but it is uncomfortable.

 

“Won’t you let me see?” Ada presses, and he is so close now- Legolas can feel the heat of his gaze sweeping across his face, searching- 

 

Why did he have to make such a fuss over words said days ago? Why was he so troubled? Why was he so focused on that _ellon_ with silver eyes-

 

It is as though he has been plunged into cold water, for Legolas jolts and blinks. 

 

His father- the King- stands before him. More than that- he has a hand on his cheek, and his brows are furrowed and eyes focused. 

 

“Ada?” Shock colours his voice. What is he doing here? Why does he touch him? Doesn’t he know that Legolas does not want to ever see him again?

 

Ada leans back as though struck; the hand on his cheek lifts immediately, draws away, back into the folds of the silver robe. Before his very eyes, he lifts his chin and becomes a King. “Laeslas.”

 

_What_ \- his limbs are like honey, or slow moving vines. Even when he moves to stand he trembles as though he has been afloat, but the hurt rushing back into his chest is his own. “What are you doing here?”

 

The pain in his voice must be clear, for Ada draws back, just a tiny step. His grey eyes flicker with something close to shock. “I wished to visit you, before I went to the feast.”

 

“Why?” He is trembling like a startled rabbit; something is wrong, but he cannot tell what. 

 

The King shakes his crowned head of autumn leaves and bright red berries. “It is of no matter now. I wish you a good eve, and will see you tomorrow at breakfast.”

 

And then without another look back, he turns and strides from Legolas’ chamber, the sweep of silk and rustle of clothing the only sound upon the cold stones. 

 

Legolas is left behind, bereft and confused. His _fae_ aches fiercely as though struck, and his mind beats against his skull.

 

_What has happened? What did I do? And- Ai! Belathon!_ It all rushes back to him; frantically, he whips around to stare at the water-clock. Relief makes him sag back down on his bed bonelessly. It is not yet of the 10th hour. He has not missed the signal.

 

But what is more pressing- what was his father doing in his chambers? And why- how- had he fallen asleep so easily? 

 

A terrible suspicion taps against his mind, demands consideration. Could- could it be that Ada had used some of his powers to put a sort of spell on him?

 

_No_ ; the very thought makes his whole body shake. No matter that things between him and his father are tense and uncomfortable, his father would not do that- there was no reason to do that!

 

_Unless_ , whispers a tiny voice, _he suspects something between you and Belathon_. _Then he would have more than enough motivation to put a spell on you. Or even try and enter your mind._  

 

Horror rushes into him so rapidly that he nearly collapses back against his bed. No! His father is strong and his magic powerful, his mind even more so, but Legolas knows him, trusts him- _He wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t do that. Not to me- not to one of his own children…_ It goes against everything he has been told. It is not true.

 

Legolas shakes his head, and pushes the thought from his mind. Whatever happened, he knows his father. He would never push aside Legolas’ defences and try to scry his thoughts; to see into the whispered words between him and Belathon. 

 

_That’s just not what fathers do_ , he consoles himself. _A true father would never…_

 

_But he isn’t_ just _a father_ , that hateful little voice whispers again. _He is a King, and Kings above all protect their people. Even if it means breaking the trust of their children_. 

 

His head and heart aching, Legolas tucks his knees up against his chest and waits for the hours to pass him by. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin: Fae- spirit   
> Rhaw- body   
> Naugrim- dwarves   
> Laeslas- baby leaf. Legolas' pet name. 
> 
> I am aware that for some of you, Thranduil's actions may seem very OOC. And I totally get you. He is, at this point, not a very happy elf, and has allowed the role of a King to overtake the role of a father, to the point that he does not realise when he is doing something that damages the trust of those he cherishes most. He thinks only for his Kingdom, and their safety, and has been suspicious of Belathon's involvement with Legolas for long enough that he doesn't hesitate to try and see into Legolas' mind. 
> 
> However I can promise you that he WILL improve, and come to realise his mistakes. It will just take time.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Legolas finally leaves

Miserable though he is, the abrupt shudder of wood under the firm touch of a fist pulls Legolas abruptly from his thoughts. He waits, and- _there_! A fourth knock. 

 

Heart in his mouth, Legolas carefully crosses the chamber and opens the door. Whatever sorrow that twists in his _fae_ eases as soon as his eyes land on the ordinary brown satchel. With trembling fingers he grasps the bag and shuts the door with a firm shove. It is almost impossible to believe that something so ordinary could contain his freedom- yet sure enough, within the soft material there lies a rolled up map, a Messenger’s uniform, several pieces of _lambas_ bread and some dried fruit. Most importantly a scroll of paper in thick, creamy parchment and with the sigil of the King stamped on top lies at the top of the bundle, prominent and expectant. 

 

Legolas lifts each item from the bag with care, placing each on the floor beside him. He examines the Messenger’s uniform, admires the fine stitch-work of the autumn-red tunic, brown leggings and a long red cloak. Discarding his own sleeping tunic, he slips on the Messenger's tunic and finds it made of good, hardy material, one that will last in any weather. The cloak is of rich, luxurious fabric and falls to brush the floor in a tumble of red waves. Yet against his shoulders it is not too heavy, and he cannot help but prance before his mirror with excitement buzzing in his chest.

 

A stranger stares back at him from the mirror; even with his childish braids and messy hair, Legolas looks as the Messengers of the King do. Under his own curious gaze he finds that the cloak and tunic pad his body until he seems to be taller. Though it could be a trick of the light, his shoulders appear to have widened and there is an energy coursing through his body that was previously unknown. 

 

Perhaps his own body is aware of the long road he will now walk, and prepares him for it. Though it is a silly thought, perhaps the act of putting on such powerful clothing brings him to lay claim to the fey strength within his veins, possessing finally the elven-blood which gives his people their endless years. 

 

Only his eyes set him apart from the stiff-backed Messengers. The pale irises do not carry the same weight as those who have seen countless seasons. Even when he tries to be serious and stiff, the grey shade glitters with excitement. 

 

With such endless energy tangling with the nerves that are beginning to grip at his chest, he carefully examines the map provided for him. Just as promised, Belathon has marked out the journey to Laketown, where to meet the bargemen who will take him to their leader, which way to go through the greener parts of the forest.

 

The thought strikes him, suddenly, that maybe he should have told Belathon that while he is adapt at _reading_ maps, he has never really had to use one. 

 

At the very thought, his stomach twists. _I will be fine. I am an Elf. If I get lost- which I won’t- but if I do- I can always stop and ask the trees for directions towards the Forest River._

 

The hours creep by as slow as moss growing on trees. Even from the quiet of the royal wing, Legolas can hear the roar of the feast, the bubble of happy laughter and many voices warmed by food and wine. He listens for a while, contentment and restlessness warring in his bones. Where one part of him wants to sit and listen forever to the satisfied sounds of his people, revel in their joy and celebrate the stars, another part, the newly awakened part, is all-too aware of the fact that such sounds are few and far between. 

 

_Belathon’s plan_ , he admits, _is one of sense._ _I will make you happy forever_ , he promises to them. _I will bring you all pride_. 

 

He sits by the bed with his satchel around his shoulder, too nervous to do much else. Every sound makes his heart kick like a startled rabbit; the brush of tree branches against his window, the far-away hoot of a barn owl. But the anxiety he feels creeping through him is soon replaced by a drowsy wave of slumber, a call to his _fae_ to rest, to lie down and seek refuge in the warm embrace of dreams- 

 

“How bright these lights are! What light they bring!” A guard calls, once again shaking him from the unexpected pull to sleep. Their voice is pitched just loud enough to reach his ears. “How the forest calls me on such a night!” 

 

The signal! 

 

Hurriedly, Legolas scrambles to put all the contents of the satchel back into the bag, and leaps to his feet. Body trembling, he checks the satchel’s contents one last time, reassuring himself that all is in there, even the map. 

 

Without a look back, Legolas darts to his door, pulls it open. A guard stands by the door, their posture rigid as though bearing the brunt of the emotions that spark and twist within him. He is not so accomplished in the mental arts as his siblings, and shielding his emotions is one thing he has always struggled with. No doubt the guard is indeed feeling the roar of his blood, the leap of excitement, and the fear which tugs at his feet and urges him to stay behind. 

 

“Go,” the guard turns and their gaze is fierce, mouth twisted in the shadows of their mask. “Go now! To the Gates.”

 

Trembling, Legolas doesn’t hesitate to obey. His cloak sweeps behind him like the wings of a butterfly, eager to take him to freedom. The first step from his chambers pulls, but the second, the third, the fourth- they are easier to bear. The stairs blur beneath his feet- he leaves the royal wing, turns down another corridor and then another. 

 

Wispy strands of his hair flies against his face and catch in his mouth from the speed of his run and the walls race on endlessly, urging him on. Mid-run he recalls to draw the hood of his cloak over his head, tugs the cowl firmly down. He gallops past the kitchens, dodges a few figures with empty platters in their hands with a shout of apology. Maeasson stands within the bright centre of the kitchen, shouts and orders, and not one of the apprentices even seem to notice the flicker of red and brown which darts past their windows.

 

Down, down the winding wooden stairs he goes, past a pair of clearly intoxicated guards who sing and sway together. Up above he travels on the high, winding paths that cross over one another like the branches of a great tree. Luckily for him, few _edhil_ walk the smooth paths so late at night, and those that do pay little attention to the patter of his steps. 

 

On he rushes, down the polished pathways, careful to mind the very empty spaces beside him. The lack of railings and the dimmed floor beneath him remind his feet to find their place with the utmost care. One slip, one too-eager leap and he would surely be hanging by his fingernails, with nothing but the gaping jaws of stone to swallow him up!

 

However what is more pressing is that beneath the twining branches lies very nearly the entire population of the Woodland Realm, all well into their drinks and heavy with food. Though the feast continues on and the many voices drown out much sound, his heart still picks up its rushed pace, well aware of the dangers of looking down or- _Ivon_ forbid- spotting a member of his family. So he keeps his gaze resolutely on the steps ahead, and does not dare to move his head, not even when he feels the faint tugging of his family’s bonds on his _fae_. 

He is rewarded for his pains when at last the crest of the King’s Gates rise before his eyes. Their massive structure stands against the entrance of the Halls, solid and impenetrable guardians who open for the King alone. Their stone is deceptively smooth, he recalls, but sings of nothing save the whisper of ancient magic and a King’s spell-weighted voice. 

 

Only _,_ he reminds himself _, today they open not just for the King_. _Today, they do so for me, and for my people._  

 

The shadows brush against his shoulders, lend him their magic as they conceal him from view. Now he is sure that even the flicker of light upon his cloak would show only that- a cloak, and not the figure who carries it. With legs that feel abruptly like milk-jelly, he leaps down another set of stairs; the hardened wood shudder against his elven bones, but he can only think on the way his heart leaps and what lies beyond the Gates. Never has he felt more alive, more aware of the slightest movement around him!

 

At last- he slows to a walk, breath loud against his ears. Three guards stand by the King’s Gates, their hands slack on their shields. All watch as he approaches, their eyes flashing like pale flecks of moonlight in the shadows. 

 

“Are you the Messenger for the King?” One asks, and Legolas recognises the faint tremor in their voice, the sweep of auburn hair. They were in the cellars of the King, alongside Belathon. They protested against Belathon’s plans to draw him in. 

 

His heart kicks in his chest. Will they stop him from leaving? He has only moments, he is aware, before the King becomes aware of the breach in his realm, the shift in stone. He must leave! Legolas tries to nod past the erratic beating of his heart. “I am he.”

 

Another guard steps forward before the _ellon_ can utter another sound. Their gaze sweeps over him, as light and cool as the press of grass. Whatever they see hardens their face, and stiffens their posture. 

 

Their words, nonetheless, are polite. “Very good; may the blessing of the _Valar_ and the goodwill of our King travel with you.”

 

_I am here at last_ , he thinks, and the thought is breathless. _I am at the entrance of the King’s Halls. These Halls- my home- which I have never left, I now leave_. 

 

There comes a mighty groan as the guards direct for the doors to be open, and then a shudder that seems to ripple through the entire cavern. Slowly, the gates swing open, and Legolas is greeted by a wave of sharp autumn air. It is the sweetest air he has ever felt against his skin, playing lightly with the corners of his cloak and the sleeves of his tunic.

 

Faintly, he is aware of the step of a guard, their whispered words against his cloak. “ _N’i lû tôl, Legolas Thranduilion_.” 

 

But his eyes, and his heart, are caught on the purple-bruised sky, the long path which stretches up into the forest. The forest which waits for him patiently. The Song of the forest reaches for him, and with nothing standing between them its melody is so strong that he is nearly propelled off his feet, drawn into its heady layers. 

 

Belathon's advice whispers in his ears; “ _whatever you do, do not tarry, for even the strongest of wines will not hold the King down for long!_ ” 

 

_I go_ , he thinks, and taking another breath of the cold air, he steps from the halls and onto the stone path. There is the shudder of heavy stone beneath his feet, and the doors shut behind him.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it's been a while huh? And its a short chapter too! Sorry to keep you all waiting, and for the relative shortness of this chapter- more is coming, and at longer length! 
> 
> Sindarin: Fae- spirit   
> Lembas- a type of filling bread which many elven warriors take with them on long journeys   
> Edhil- Elves  
> Ellon- male elf   
> Valar- collection of deities which rule over Middle-Earth in the stead of Iluvatar.   
> N’i lû tôl- until next we meet. A farewell.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Legolas explores the forest, and makes a friend

The sound of the forest- her beautiful Song of ancient trees, hidden brooks within small valleys, the touch of wild feet upon mossy ground- presses against him as the welcome flutter of a thousand hands. Unable to contain the joy which rises in his _fae_ , Legolas smiles and begins to run- runs up that ancient path which his people tread, and then turns into the heavy fall of trees which stand by the path, ever-watchful and welcome.

 

The trees, their pale leaves turning from green to red under the gentle sky, the brush of their boughs against his hand; it is all he knew it would be. He runs, skips over clumps of ivy and underbrush, weaves his way under the heavy limbs of ancient trees who Sing of life and the fall of leaves. On he travels, deeper and deeper into the forest, pausing occasionally to touch the leaves that cling stubbornly to their branches, feels the life that trickles through their tiny veins under his fingertips. Each and every living thing has a place within the Song, even he- he strains to hear it, the leap and dance of his _fae_ amongst the continuous rhythm of trees swaying in the wind, the scuttle of bugs and tentative steps of wild forest creatures. 

 

Where before he only tasted a portion of the forest’s Song, now he is completely surrounded by it, swallowed up in the welcome pull of a thousand thoughts, a time and life immeasurable to him. Even so, he continues to walk through her hidden corridors until he finally deems it safe to stop and pull out his map. With the cavern of stone far behind him, he hears only the shift of leaves in the early breeze, the patter of tiny limbs on tree-bark and foliage. Looking about him, all he sees is the stretch of trees and the sky which peers through the maze of branches, turning a rosy pink as _anor_ begins to rise from her bed of clouds. 

 

_There is no chance of anyone seeing me now_ , he thinks with satisfaction, and takes the time to look closely at Belathon’s map. Where he has indeed followed Belathon’s instructions to turn into the forest upon escaping the King’s Halls, he hasn’t exactly continued in what appears to be a straight line towards the Forest River. 

 

_Well_ , he reasons, tracing the markings of the map closely. _If I am still within this pocket of forest, if I turn a little north I will surely make it to the river_. 

 

And so he walks on, his _fae_ as buoyant as the cool breeze which rustles against the leaves above him. 

 

To his delight, he is able to watch as _anor_ grows steadily higher within the sky and the forest around him wakes and stirs. Birds begin to sing their morning songs high above him, and he even catches a glimpse of a red-tailed squirrel darting through the trees, no doubt on her way to store nuts for winter. 

 

But something bothers him, even despite walking amongst the trees and listening to their Song. A pressing weight to his _fae_ keeps tugging at him, urging him to _listen_ \- _look around_.  It is whisper of eyes upon his skin, the quiet unease that fills him when he takes step after step. The back of his neck prickles, his ears twitch at the soft crush of leaves underfoot. He is not alone.

 

This presence he feels near him is not one of the forest. It presses at his back with every step he makes, reminds him that the forest does indeed have eyes, and they watch him.  _I am not afraid_ , he thinks resolutely, _and I won’t falter. I am on a mission for my King, and for my people._

 

Even so, he reaches out and carefully brushes the trunk of a young beech tree. It sings happily under his touch, full of the vibrancy of youth, and dutifully informs him of the nest of mice which house beneath its shallow roots. It does not speak of danger, nor of unfriendly eyes. 

 

_Whoever they are_ , Legolas resolves as he pulls away, trying to shake the uneasiness from his _fae_ , _I am sure they do not mean to harm me_. 

 

_But then,_ a small voice whispers in the back of his mind, _no one has ever dared to hurt you._

 

Legolas breathes in, and feels the forest breathe with him. He is being ridiculous. _Whoever they are, they don’t mean any_ \- 

 

A crackle of fallen leaves registers only a few feet behind him, and his heart kicks under his chest. And still, though he reacts as any creature of the wood would do when faced with danger, the forest is as calm as before. Her leaves still fall, and her Song does not colour with shadow. 

 

He turns slowly, every muscle tense, to face the woods behind him. “Who is there?” 

 

_Annith always said to turn and face your enemies, and I won’t be afraid, I am not afraid_ \- His very blood seems to stop as he imagines the heavy, poisonous bulk of a _ungol_ flying down from the tree-tops. Did _yngyl_ dare come this far North? _No_ \- he remembers Aeglostor once boasting to a friend that he had personally driven every last _ungol_ from this part of the forest. 

 

_Maybe- maybe they think I am a trespasser_ ; a ridiculous idea, Legolas thinks, when his father is the King of these woods and it is in his power that stretches forward and protects them all. 

 

But the figure which he knows looks upon him- they could be one of the Silvan who choose to live in the woods; those who do not like the closeness of the King’s Halls, or the boundaries his father puts upon them all. 

 

“I do not mean any harm,” he lowers his voice, eyes flickering to the trees around him.They stand the same, swaying patiently in the breeze, yet he still cannot shake the sensation that there is someone watching him. “ _Im Legolas_ , and I travel to Laketown. I am- I am a messenger of King Thranduil.” 

 

He waits, darts his gaze to each small movement. Slowly, a shadow flickers amongst the trees, and from the mighty bough of an oak tree, a figure peels itself away. First legs, then arms, and then the form of a tall _ellon_ appears and stands before him. 

 

They are unlike any _edhel_ he has seen- heavy black hair sweeps down their shoulders, rushing down a bare chest the colour of the earth. Muscles writhe with even the smallest of twitches, and they loom above him as the shade of the oak which they drew themselves from. Yet what is most startling is how every part of their _rhaw_ glistens like spring water under sunlight, like their _fae_ burns right under their skin. 

 

Legolas stares, his heart thudding. “ _M-Mae l’ovannen_. How...how did you do that?” 

 

The stranger blinks down at him with eyes that are the veiny green of new leaves. “Thranduil, did you say? You are very young to be a Messenger for your King.” 

 

His voice is deep and Legolas sees ancient trees swaying in the breeze, their great limbs bobbing, heavy with leaves. More than that, he is aware of a great, heavy weight touching his _fae_ , curious and yet frightening. The might of their mind is such that he is reminded of a hawk toying with its prey, its talons able to sink right into the vulnerable body of its victim at any given moment. And the stranger's strength brings him to flinch, scrambling to throw up what flimsy shields he can muster, such is the impossible weight and age of their touch. 

 

“I-” his voice falters, and he can practically feel Faervel hissing about _manners- it is rude to stare, Laeslas!_ But his eyes are drawn to the stranger’s hip which jut out of their body like roots above the earth, and onto the set of daggers which dangle there. 

 

A shiver of fear runs up his spine; he is reminded again of how small he is before this stranger, this _ellon_ whose entire body is wild and bright with his spirit, in a way that Legolas has never seen or felt before. 

 

Full lips part into a very sharp smile; the stranger has traced his eyes, and felt the defences of his spirit. “I am of no threat to you, _nethben_.” 

 

“ _Nethben_?” Legolas echoes. The word is a very old endearment, hardly ever used by his people. Not one of his family has ever used it, nor the cooks or butlers or even Lady Faervel whose blood is of the _Laegrim_. He has only ever heard it spoken by his tutor Badhron, who mentioned it being used by those Silvan who settled by the Forest River. Yet this stranger is no Silvan- his _fae_ sits just beneath his skin, like a trout in a shallow pool who causes ripples to arise with every move. And in his green eyes is a wildness that makes Legolas want to run. 

 

“Are- are you an Avari?” 

 

The stranger’s smile grows. “You are clever, for one so young. Yes, I am an Avari- my people know me as Hissaelon. But now, tell me this, _Legolas Thranduilion_ , what does the youngest prince of your people have to do with delivering Messages to the Lake of Men?” 

 

Shock races up his _rhaw_ in a flash of lightening. “How did you know who my father was?” 

 

The Avari drops his smile, and gives Legolas an unreadable look. “I have met your father before, _nethben_ , and his shadow lies within your eyes, daring any to touch you.” 

 

A blush rises to his cheeks; he is all too aware of how restricting his father is- and now the stranger tells him that the King even inhabits his own gaze! It is too much- and what is worse is that the Avari stranger makes it seem as though his father cares only for him. “My father is- protective of me,” Legolas admits, struggling to keep the heat from his voice. “But he is as equally as protective of my brothers and sister!” 

 

Hissaelon raises a hand. “I make no judgement on your father, _nethben_ ; _sidh_. I only wonder, how do you think he will feel when he realises that his child has left his Halls?” 

 

This is the last thing that Legolas wants to think of. He drops his gaze to the forest floor, stares at the foliage which gathers there. He has only been out in the forest for a heartbeat, and already he is reminded of the consequences that await him. 

 

“He won’t be happy,” he says in reply. No doubt his father’s fury will shake the very forest floor when he discovers his trickery, and the treachery of those who helped him. It leaves him uneasy, almost frightened. 

 

_But_ , Balathon is quick to chide, silver eyes glittering, _you forget that you are helping your people. And when you return, your father will not be angry, but full of pride for what you have done for his Kingdom._

 

“Perhaps,” says the Avari in a grave tone, “you should return to him, before you are missed.” 

 

“No!” Legolas says, and the woods echo with the word. “No! I will not.” Hissaelon has not even known him for more than a few heartbeats, and already thinks of him as nothing more than a wayward elfling, a child to be corralled up and put away! 

 

“I am not an elfling,” he says firmly. “And I know what I need to do. By delivering my message, I am upholding the honour of my people and ensuring their freedom.” 

 

Rather than being reassured by his words, dismay spreads across the dark-haired _ellon’s_ face. “Who put those words in your mouth, _nethben_? Who thinks to put you in harm’s way for the sake of their ambition?”

 

Mortification rises to his cheeks. “No one did! I- I know what I do!” He insists, and he can’t hide the anger in his voice. _Neither Belathon nor I do this for ambition- we do this to help our people! And why does everyone I meet think I am a simple child who is unable to think for himself?_

 

The Avari does not even seem to hear his words, for he steps towards him, green eyes flashing. That incredibly heavy mind pushes against him with the same strength as a physical blow, and Legolas grits his teeth against the touch. 

“Legolas, listen to me- we are but strangers to each other, but I know that nothing but death and ruin will come of you travelling to the town of Men- I saw it as soon as you stepped into these woods.”

 

This makes him pause; the heat that has risen up into his throat suddenly evaporates, and he is filled with shame. It is beyond rude to shout at a stranger, and an _Avari_ stranger at that! _Ivon_! He has shamed everything he has been taught of treating others with kindness and respect, and to listen to what they have to say. 

 

And more than that, he has heard whispers of the _Avari_ people, and the powerful Sight they contain. _You would do well to listen, Laeslas_ , a voice suspiciously similar to Lhosben says. _You will need to listen to all who come before you, if you want to be a true Prince_.

 

“ _Goheno nin,_ Hissaelon,” he sketches a hasty bow, hoping that the _ellon_ is not offended. “I did not mean to shout. But I know what I am doing, truly.” he says earnestly when a shadow flickers across the Avari’s face.

 

“Do you?” Hissaelon looks past his bow as though it is nothing, and peers at him. In the growing sunlight, his eyes harden to jade stones. “Do you truly?” 

 

The words weigh down on him like boulders, pressing the air from his lungs. _Why do they affect me so?_ He shakes his head, feels his braids bounce against his chest. “You are kind, Hissaelon, to worry for me. But I am no elfling- I know my duty, and it is to deliver a message to the leader of Laketown.”

 

The Avari pauses, and a shiver ripples through his body. “Very well,” he says gravely. “If it be your path, then your path it is to walk.” 

 

Legolas glances about him. The air is lighter with dawn’s warm rays trickling through the leaves, and he must hurry if he means to be out of the reach of his father’s power by the time he wakes. But he can’t just leave Hissaelon, not when the Elf still stands before him. 

 

An idea strikes him. Hissaelon is one of the Avari- an _edhel_ who knows the earth and her paths better than any other. He could lead him to the Forest River. And perhaps on the way, Legolas could apologise for his rude manners, maybe even ask after the lifestyle of such a rare people. 

 

“Hissaelon?” He calls, and the elf raises green eyes to him, waits. “Would- would you be so kind and show me the way to the edge of the Forest River? Where I may meet with a bargeman?” 

 

To his relief, the _ellon_ nods without hesitation. “I will. Come, and make sure that you lift your feet. The forest floor is thick here.” 

 

They travel quickly, to Legolas’ relief. By the time _anor_ is at her zennith and her rays smiling down on their heads, he can hear the rush and hiss of what Hissaelon explains is the powerful current of water against rocks. The Avari is so aware of the forest around them that it makes Legolas blush for shame, for some of the plants that Hissaelon points out as poisonous- such as the spotted ivy or tiny red berries- he would have surely picked or eaten. 

 

“My father, he is strict with me.” He explains hurriedly, pushes down the bile that rises in his chest at the memory of the night before, how his father had- had- _No_. It does no good to think upon it. Not when he walks beside an Avari and amongst the trees. 

 

“He has not let me see the forest before now- he says it is too dangerous, even for a prince of the Greenwood. I suppose- he does it out of fear that I will be hurt, but sometimes..some days I wish nothing more than to run away.” 

 

Hissaelon gives him a look. “And now you run.” 

 

“Now,” says Legolas as firmly as he can without being rude, “now I go to deliver a message and bring pride to our Kingdom.” 

 

The Avari makes a noise in the back of his throat, just like his tutor Badhron when frustrated. “You are much like my own _ion_. He thinks he knows best, when he has seen so little of the dangers of the world.” 

 

“You have an _ion_?” Legolas asks, surprised. To be truthful, Hissaelon does not seem the fatherly type.

 

The thought must cross his face, for Hissaelon gives him a sharp, wolfish smile. With a press of his mind which is surprisingly gentle, the Avari passes him a memory; the flickering figure of an _ellon_ with the same dark hair as his father, and a mischievous smile, dances before him, and then withdraws. “Yes, I do. He is a few _laer_ older than you, and would explore the entire Greenwood if I but let him.”

 

Legolas grins up at the Avari. So Hissaelon had previously spoken not from judgement, but from the overprotective urges of a father wanting nothing more than to keep his child safe. “Would you tell your _ion_ that I also understand the pain of protective fathers?”

 

Hissaelon’s eyes grow wide as though surprised at his daring, before narrowing into glittering slits. “You cheeky _laeg_!” 

 

Legolas laughs, and dodges the playful swipe aimed at his ear. 

 

They cross the rising slope of the forest in companionable silence, and he relishes the way his legs burn from the climb, how his body flushes with delight at the Song of the forest. The sounds of the birds as they sing to the welcome light of _anor_ lifts his mind and casts aside the burden of Hissaelon’s words, and he takes joy in the way the spotted light sinks into his skin. 

 

The rush of the river grows louder as they reach the top of the rise, and at last the trees thin and he sees the glorious river that dominates the land. 

 

“ _Ivon_!” He breathes in awe. The water is clear in the unfiltered sunlight, and even with various rocks placed in it, the river continues to rush and rage down through the forest, unheeding of that which would try to obscure its path. “It is beautiful.” 

 

Hissaelon, however, doesn’t seem to share his wonder. The tall figure pauses instead and gestures behind him, to the woods they have just travelled through. “These woods, though they have been my home and all I need for many _yen_ , are no longer free of the shadow which plagues the southern parts of the forest. You think me protective for not allowing my son to travel far, but this forest is no place for a child. Take care, Legolas, when travelling through such places- it was your Song which drew me to you; your _fëa_ that is so young and bright.” 

 

“But it is peaceful here!” Legolas points out. How can Hissaelon see only shadow, when the world is bright and full of joy? “My brother Aeglostor- he’s an archer in the King’s Guard- says that he and his company has kept this part of the forest free from _yngyl_ for many _yen_.” 

 

“That may be,” Hissaelon says slowly. “But your brother and all the _edhil_ within the King’s Guard cannot banish the malignant forces that clings to the very _fëa_ of the Forest, and changes its Song.” 

 

Legolas pauses, lingers on the Avari’s words. If not his brother, who can? “Could my- could the King? He is strong, stronger than many _edhil_ , and not just in battle.” 

 

“Perhaps he might have, once, when he and the Queen reigned together.” Hissaelon admits, and Legolas’ heart sinks at the mention of his mother, she who he does not know and yet who was irreplaceable in giving him life. 

 

Even as the Avari speaks, a shadow touches his face, as though he recalls a dark memory. “Now, though? No, I am not sure of that.” 

 

Privately, Legolas wonders at the doubt in Hissaelon’s voice. Though he does not like to think on it, his father _is_ powerful, more powerful than any of his family, or any of those in his Halls. _How can he not cast out the shadow?_

 

But then- his mind recalls the shadows which pressed under those cold grey eyes, his father bowing his head and admitting that he will leave the southern parts of the forest to be swallowed by shadow. Perhaps- Perhaps Hissaelon is right. Maybe not even his father can repress or stop the shadow from stealing into their forest…. 

 

Hissaelon’s voice draws him from his grim thoughts. “Come now, _nethben_. We must hurry to reach the port of the bargemen- your father and his guards would have realised you are missing by now.”

 

Realisation floods Legolas like the swelling of the river against its banks, makes him stagger upon the ground. This stranger, this Avari who has only just met him and yet has willingly lead him through the forest, goes against the express command of his King. 

 

_My father’s wrath will already be insurmountable, and knowing that I had an accomplice in escaping… I do not wish for another to be caught in such a net of fury._

 

“Hissaelon,” he asks hesitantly, “will you not face trouble for taking me to the bargemen?” 

 

The Avari looks down at him. In the sunlight, his face becomes drawn, wary. “I will.” 

 

Shame rushes through his blood. Though Legolas has known the Avari for only what are heartbeats in the life of an elf, he admires the tall, powerful figure, this _ellon_ whose whole life is within the forest. He cannot leave him to the wrath of his father. “Then- then leave me here. I do not want you to face my father’s anger. If you tell me where to go, I will make sure that you are not seen.” 

 

“No, _nethben_ ” Hissaelon is shaking his dark head before Legolas can finish his sentence. “I would not leave you to wander along the river now. If it were my own child out in these woods I would guard him as a wolf does her pups. As your _Ada_ is not here to protect you, so must I be the wolf.”

 

“But you have your own _ion_ -!” Legolas makes to protest, but the long-legged Avari is already striding off down the banks of the river. Every step of his newfound friend further down the riverbank tugs at his _fae,_ calls him to follow. Yet once again, something holds his feet to the mud, pulls at his cloak. 

 

_I must choose now_ , he realises, and the choice which lies before him seems insurmountable. _Do I leave the protection of my realm and enter a world that does not love me? Do I allow Hissaelon to bear the brunt of my father’s anger? Or do I turn back and remain in safety? Should I leave Hissaelon to return to his forest?_

 

Ahead of him, Hissaelon does not slow, but continues on as though Legolas is right behind him. Ahead of him, the river and beyond that, the strange world of Men, call to him. Behind him, he can feel the strength of his father and his family, and the forest he does not know but loves all the same.

 

_Choose, choose now_. 

 

He takes a breath, and chooses.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised; a new, and much longer, chapter. Hope you all enjoyed it! What did you think of Hissaelon? He's a favourite of mine. 
> 
> Sindarin: Ivon- another name for Yavanna, the deity/goddess of the forests  
> Fae- spirit 
> 
> Fea- Quenyan word for spirit


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Legolas meets Bard the Bowman, and says goodbye to Hissaelon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick FYI; as Legolas and Hissaelon will be interacting with Men, I have put their conversations in italics so you can differentiate when they are speaking Sindarin to one another, and when they are speaking Westron. Up until they meet Bard, just assume that they're speaking Sindarin :)

“We are nearing the port of the bargemen now. Can you sense their _fëar_?”

 

From where he walks beside the Avari, Legolas glances at him in surprise. “Do Men have a _fae_?” 

 

“All of Ilúvatar’s creations do,” Hissaelon answers after a pause. Legolas suspects it is one of surprise, and he flushes almost as red as his cloak. Though he has been well tutored, it is obvious that Badhron is no match for an Avari in matters of elven-kind. 

 

“It would not do well that a Man had only a _hröa_ , and no _fëa_ to guide him,” the Avari adds. “Second-born though they may be, but Ilúvatar’s creation they remain. Now focus. Can you sense it?”

 

Breathing in, Legolas tentatively reaches out- and nearly leaps out of his skin. Before the touch of his mind, the spirit of Men burns against his senses as a flame, hot and unbearable even from a distance. “Hissaelon! They-they’re so strong! Will they not burn themselves out?”

 

“Yes,” says Hissaelon solemnly, though Legolas thinks he can see a sparkle of amusement in those ever-green eyes. “They carry the Doom of Men with them, so their _fëar_ is as a sudden burst of energy, as brief as a butterfly’s life amongst ancient trees. Beautiful their _fëar_ are, and yet painful when we _edhil_ find ourselves caught in their light.”

 

How strange they are! Legolas cannot help but reach out again, feel the dance of their burning light against his mind. It is completely different from the _fae_ of his people; where they are as constant as the flow of a river, rising and falling, tied to the world around them, the Men’s _faer_ leap and spark like embers leaping up from a fire. “But- they could slip out of their _rhaw_ at any moment. Why-”

 

“Hush!” Hissaelon’s voice lowers into a growl, and the tall figure pushes Legolas behind him and slides into a crouch, one hand flying to the set of daggers at his hip. The pale eyes travel to the river, where Legolas can hear the groan of wood and the rasping breath of someone pushing their way upstream. “Someone approaches, and at speed!”

 

“Is it not a Man?” Legolas asks in a hushed tone; already he can feel a painfully bright _fae_ pushing against his mind and senses. Why does it draw such a reaction from his friend?

 

The Avari tilts his head, blinks slowly. His eyes are no longer fixed on the river; rather, they travel to the forest ahead of them, scan the trees and their waving limbs. “No, it is a shadow that crosses into the forest- and I do not know where.”

 

But the unsteady bulk of a very full barge turning the bend of the river distracts them both. A tall figure in brown directs the barge through the spray of the water, and calls to them in the strange Westron tongue. “Ho there, elves!”

 

Slowly, yet with the careful movements that comes from seasons of experience, the Man nudges his barge towards the port, eases it to dock. Up close Legolas can see where the spray of the river has hit his clothing and darkens the tattered material. Yet while his coat is torn and with the ragged look of age, a smile still remains on his face. 

 

Hissaelon inclines his head in a small nod, Legolas hastily following suit. “Welcome, Man of Laketown.”

 

He is a curious creature- the first Man he has seen- with dark hair that falls to his shoulders, and yet is streaked with strands of grey. Bearing a tall, sturdy frame with ease, the Man does not carry his _fae_ beneath his skin or behind his eyes, but instead seems to burn with it. Buried even as he is under the brown coat and ragged clothing, his spirit is almost impossibly bright, and pours out of every corner of his being. 

 

What intrigues him most, however, is the fact that the Man has a massive long-bow strapped to his back, one that gleams and shows off fine-grained wood that has been polished to perfection. It is a bow that sings of its own nobility, and of a master who has cared for its fine wood for many seasons. 

 

“Are you of King Thranduil’s folk?” The Man calls, his face wavering between polite friendliness and an ingrained wariness. 

 

_No doubt he is observing the way Hissaelon has slid into a crouch in front of me_ , Legolas realises.

 

“We are,” Hissaelon says after a beat, easing out of his crouch. Without warning the tall Elf steps aside to allow Legolas full view of the Man. “And I have with me a Messenger for your town.” 

 

The Man’s dark eyes land on him. “Ah,” he says, and his voice is rough, as though wood that has not yet been sanded down. “I greet you, Messenger of King Thranduil.” 

 

“Is that really a longbow?” Legolas breathes before he can stop himself. 

 

Surprise darts across the Man’s face, and Legolas feels the tip of his ears burn as he remembers that he is a _Messenger_ for the _King,_ and all will expect him to behave as such. “Oh,” he tries again, finds his voice to be embarrassingly rough, “I mean, I greet you also, bargeman.” 

 

Some of the wariness on the Man’s face fades as he offers Legolas a small smile. “You elves are fond of your bows, are you not? I shouldn’t be surprised at such a question! Yes, Messenger, this is a longbow.” 

 

“It is a beautiful bow.” Legolas says, feeling strangely exposed. He doesn’t know what to expect- or what to say to this stranger. 

 

_But compliments always ease the way into a good conversation_ , Faervel whispers in the back of his mind. 

 

The Man nods, but he can see the same surprise flicker across his weather-worn face. “That is high praise coming from one of the fair-folk; I thank you. It is a heirloom of my family.”

 

It is Hissaelon who steps forward and speaks, and Legolas feels relief rush through him. “Would you take this Messenger to your town as soon as you are able? He has urgent news for your people.” 

 

Somehow, though he has only uttered a few sentences, Legolas feels as though he has tripped up in so many ways that a true Messenger never would. Who knew that acting as another could be so strange? 

 

The Man grimaces at the Avari’s words. “I would be able to, but not for a few more hours at least. I must first wait for the return of my barrels from your King.” 

 

_Ada_. Legolas stiffens. If his father hears of the bargeman conversing with two of his people by the river, he will surely guess it is him and send guards to track him down. His heart begins to beat loudly against his ears. 

 

Hissaelon only rolls his weight to one foot as though the matter is of no inconvenience. “Well, does another barge approach, one that can see this Messenger to your people quickly?” 

 

The bargeman pauses, and then nods. The sunlight shines over his dark head, the careful eyes which watch their movements almost as carefully as they do his. “Yes- I could get Ruthil to take you to the Master, if I take her barrels.” 

 

Legolas glances at his barge; it is already full with barrels of wine, and no doubt heavy. “Will the added barrels not be too much for you, Master Bargeman?” 

 

Both the Man and Hissaelon pause, and again he is flooded with the distinct sensation that he has somehow overstepped a line. But what line, he does not know. Glancing at Hissaelon gives away nothing; the Avari is as still as an ancient tree. Has he offered the Man insult? 

 

He looks to the Man, yet finds the lined face to be unusually still, the dark eyes shaded. He offers him no signs that he is offended, but there is something in his posture that makes Legolas’ stomach twist.

 

“No,” the bargeman says at last. His voice is quiet against the rush of the river. “No, I know this current well, Master Elf. But I thank you for your concern.”

 

“ _You speak as a Prince, not a Messenger_.” Hissaelon says quietly in a voice that Legolas distinctly recognises from the occasions that Faervel has chided him. “ _What you say is what a concerned Prince would say, not a Messenger who thinks only of what he must say and what he must do. You will raise suspicions if you do not adjust_.” 

 

“ _I do not know how to!_ ” Legolas protests. “ _I only know how to be a Prince, not a Messenger_.”

 

“ _Then from now do not speak!_ ” Hissaelon says, his voice sharpening. “ _Unless you want a sharper Mortal to realise that you play a facade with their trade, do not speak until you reach the town. And then, once before their Leader, speak only sparingly, and only from what your message says._ ”

 

“Is all well?” The voice of the bargeman draws both to end their hurried conversation. 

 

“Yes” says Hissaelon, his face and voice as smooth as the wood of a birch tree. “When does your other barge arrive?” 

 

The Man glances behind him. “Soon, I would think. She was only just behind me.” 

 

“Then we shall wait.” Hissaelon says simply, and gestures for Legolas to sit on the stones beside him. 

 

As soon as he is seated, the Avari leans in and begins speaking rapidly. “ _Listen now, nethben. When you enter that town of Men, you are no longer a Prince. You are a simple Messenger from the Elvenking Thranduil, whose word is law. You must act as such. From what travels back to me by the trees and animals, all of your King’s messengers do not accept, nor give quarter to, anything less than what their Message asks. You must do the same, if you are to be believed_.” 

 

A shadow of fear bubbles up in his chest, and for the first time Legolas dares to reach out and grasp the warm skin of Hissaelon’s wrist. It is smooth as polished wood under his fingers, yet muscles roll underneath, surprised at his touch. 

 

“ _Can you not come with me? I only- I have never spoken before any person of power, and you will be out of reach of my father’s anger…_ ” He begs, even though his _fae_ whispers that Hissaelon is as part of the forest as it is of him- and Legolas has chosen a path that is to be walked alone.

 

A shadow crosses the Avari’s face, and gently, more gently than he thought possible, he lifts Legolas’ trembling fingers from his wrist. “ _No, nethben. My journey ends here, by the river_.”

 

The thought of leaving behind his last connection to his family, his forest, makes something deep within his _fae_ ache. “ _Then_ ,” he swallows past the ache, and manages a weak smile, “ _then I am glad you came this far with me_.”

 

Hissaelon blinks, and says nothing. His eyes, the same ever-green as the forest, travel to the silver waters in front of them and stay there. 

 

“Here she is!” The bargeman calls, and Legolas looks up to see another barge, slightly smaller but still laden down with barrels, making its way upstream to them. It is a mortal woman who takes control of this barge, and unlike their bargeman she carries no longbow, but rather a scowl that would put Aeglostor to shame. As the bargeman before them, her own _fae_ shines against her skin and slams against his senses as the sudden exposure to sunlight, overwhelmingly bright to his mind. 

 

“Oi, thanks for leaving me behind, Bard!” Her voice is as rough as unsanded wood, and loud. Puffing loudly, she guides her barge upstream to where they all wait. “You know I would have caught that current before you, if you hadn’t of slipped off before I’d had my barge checked.”

 

A faint smile crinkles the bargeman’s face. “It is good to see you too, Ruthil. I have here a Messenger for the Master who needs immediate transportation in place of your barrels.”

 

The woman- closer to them now, wears a similar ragged coat and clothing as the bargeman, only with bright red hair and a smattering of freckles- scowls up at Legolas and Hissaelon. “Which one? Tall, dark and mysterious, or short, blond and younger than my witch’s hairs?” 

 

The bargeman makes a sound that is suspiciously close to a chuckle. “The short one- Master…”

 

It is only when Hissaelon looks down at him that Legolas realises the bargeman is addressing him. 

 

“Oh- Legolas! I am Legolas” He says hurriedly, trying not to trip over the syllables. _It will be a miracle indeed if they do not guess my age by the time I reach the Lake!_

 

The woman snorts. “Alright then, Master Legolas.” Her voice does not quite catch the elven inflection of his name, and it makes him hide a smile into the corner of his cloak. “Let me just hand over these barrels to Bard and we’ll be on our way to the Master.” 

 

“The Master?” His voice sounds young even to his ears. “Is that your King?”

 

“King?” The woman splutters, hacks, coughs and spits something dark into the water. “King? Aye, he’d wish he was one!”

 

“Well, he’s got enough gold to be counted as one…” The Bargeman says, peering over to the other side of the river as though its Song calls him. 

 

“No, he ain’t our King!” The woman- Ruthil- growls over the Bargeman’s low voice. “He’s just our Master. The one with all his fat fingers in all the pie-holes in Laketown. Now, before you weed-eaters ask any more questions, would you please give me a minute to give my load to Bard the Noble.”

 

“ _She doesn’t seem very happy_ ” Legolas comments quietly to Hissaelon. “ _And why did she call us weed-eaters? Don’t they know that we eat as much meat as they do?_ ” 

 

The Avari glances down at him. “ _Most of the Second Born aren’t very knowledgable or content, especially those that live on the lake_.”

 

Ruthil and the Bargeman grunt as they heave barrel after barrel first onto the dock, and then back onto the Bargeman’s already laden vessel. The effort seems costly, for both pause to swipe at their foreheads with each barrel they wrestle onto the dock. 

 

“ _Should- should we help them?_ ” Legolas asks quietly. It is strange seeing two individuals struggling with a task that would, if he were in the Halls, require only one _edhel_ , and pity worms in his stomach. Bright though their _faer_ are, he is reminded again of the physical weaknesses of Men. 

 

“ _Would a Messenger of King Thranduil offer to help a Man who knows what they are doing?_ ” Hissaelon returns pointedly.

 

Legolas reluctantly notes that a Messenger of King Thranduil would not do such a thing, and nudges his toes into the cracks between the stones. 

 

After much puffing and grunting, the two mortals finish their task, and stretch their limbs with groans before clambering over to their respective vessels. 

 

“Let’s go, twig!” Ruthil calls. “I don’t have eternity unlike you lot!”

 

Even the warm rays of _anor_ cannot stop Legolas’ _rhaw_ stiffening as though he is frozen over. His _fae_ twists painfully in his chest, already resenting the parting from someone who has turned so quickly from stranger to friend. 

 

Turning to Hissaelon, he finds the Avari already stretching out a hand in farewell. “ _Namarie_ , _nethben_.” He says slowly. “May all the stars shine down on your head and guide you safely home.”

 

“ _Hannon le_ , Hissaelon” Legolas says numbly. Gazing up into the green eyes that turn as pale as new leaves, he tries to smile. “ _And may the Valar greet you warmly when you at the end of Arda return to Mandos’ Halls_.” 

 

By the widening of his eyes, Legolas knows that he has correctly spoken the ancient farewell of an Avari _edhel_. But what is more surprising is having the _ellon_ grasp him by the shoulders and hold him close, until all he can see are eyes darkened with a frightening intensity. 

 

“ _There be in the town of Men a Man who is brave and noble and wise_ ” the Avari says quickly. His voice is low, carrying the same hum of magic as when his people would call their magic and wield spells at their fingertips. The words beat against his chest. “ _He is the one worth following in the end. Remember this, Legolas Thranduilion!_ ” 

 

“Right, let’s go!” The rough call of the woman shakes both Elves from their farewells. Legolas leans into the heavy weight of his friend’s touch, reluctant to leave behind the _ellon_ who has so quickly turned from stranger to friend. _Yet I must, if I want to fulfil my promise to my people_. 

 

As though sensing his hesitation, Hissaelon releases him. “ _Go now, nethben_.” 

 

Gingerly, Legolas turns and steps onto first the Bargeman’s vessel, who watches him carefully, and then jumps over to Ruthil’s barge. The vessel rocks unsteadily underneath his feet, and the wood creaks when he settles down on the seat provided. 

 

The woman’s watery green eyes glower at him, her face twisted in unease. “You ain’t going to cry, are ye, Elf?”

 

Vehemently, Legolas shakes his head. He can feel Hissaelon’s immense _fae_ push against him, and a wave of strength carries between them, draws his shoulders to stiffen and his voice to steady. “I will not.” _No Messenger of King Thranduil thinks of crying when on their way to deliver a message_. 

 

“Good,” she says roughly, grunting as she pushes the barge off the bank of the river and into deeper water. “I don’t have time to deal with such hysterics. We have a lot of water to cross and at great speed if ye want to get to town before noon-high”

 

Ruthil’s words eventually fall into silence as they make their way downstream, yet he cannot find it in him to speak. Only the splashing of the river and the distant call of birds breaks past the ache of parting inside of him.

 

By the time Legolas finds the strength to look back, Hissaelon has already melted into the fringe of trees, and he knows himself to be utterly alone.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all liked this chapter- and Hissaelon. I'm not sure if he'll leave his beloved forest and show up later, but you never know...he could be persuaded 
> 
> Sindarin: Fea- spirit   
> Rhaw- body   
> Namarie- Farewell, in Quenyan   
> Arda- Earth   
> Valar- rank of Angel-like beings, or deities who watch over ME  
> Mandos- deity/god of death, and collector of spirits


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Legolas realises the realities of the town upon the Lake

The town upon the Lake is nothing like Legolas imagined it would be. Where he expects a well-designed, luxurious place that bustles with trade and colours, he is instead greeted with worn, closely designed houses, their textures faded and the wood groaning with rot. 

 

There is little beauty to be found here, save for the misty waters and the sheets of ice which float upon the chilly waters. _Anor’s_ warmth is well hidden behind long-hanging clouds, yet the town’s design still speak of days long past where their various spiralling towers and proud structures boasted a prosperous and happy people. 

 

The barge-woman Ruthil says little on the journey to her town, except for a few mutters and curses when the barge threatens to run into what appear to be ruined structures. Legolas does not mind, for it is already distracting having her stand so close to him. In such limited space, her mortal _fae_ prickles against his senses like the lick of flames, each and every emotion she carries racing up against him as lightening across his skin. 

 

Where his family have always been careful with the sharing of emotions, well-aware of how overwhelming the rush and pull of their endless spirits can be against each other, there seems to be no restrictions nor caution within Men.

 

It is harder than he ever anticipated, trying to learn how to politely tune Ruthil out. What barriers he manages to raise are quickly flung aside as every facet of her thoughts seems to want to slam against him. He is buffeted about in the currents of her emotions as a tiny fledgling is in a great winter storm, unable to do nothing but rise and fall with her. 

 

By the time their barge drifts past an overarching bridge and onto the heavy toll-gate of the town, Legolas finds himself shaken, drawn into himself. _I suppose this is what the town of Men will be like_ , he attempts to strengthen his _fae_ , draws on the memory of the forest and her Song, all of which stand in stark contrast to this watery world, _and I must grow used to it_. 

 

Yet nerves bite at him even still, gnaw at his bones. He is far from his Halls of stone, from the forest he loves. There is no Hissaelon to speak for him here, to defend his words. He must do all that others have done for him, and the thought frightens him. _I cannot turn back, not now. Yet I cannot risk failure for my people either._  

 

“Halt!” A voice pipes from a lamp-lit building as they stop in front of the toll-gate. A man steps out, dressed in the same worn clothing as both Ruthil and the bargeman. He lifts a lamp, holding it up to view the individuals on the barge. “Goods inspection! Papers please.” 

 

“Mornin’ Percy,” Ruthil’s voice is still rough, but marginally lighter than how she usually addresses him. With a groan of wood, she pulls on the rudder and brings the barge to a halt. The chunks of ice clink against the side of the barge. 

 

The Man smiles, though his eyes soon flicker to Legolas’ huddled form, and widen. There is a pulse of surprise from his _fae_ , and then the slow creep of what he guesses is suspicion. “Ah, Ruthil. Good to see you. Anything to, ah, declare?”

 

With a pop of her joints, Ruthil stretches her arms and plods over and off her barge, landing with a thud on the wooden landing of the man’s house. Legolas watches as her pale eyes sweep back to him dismissively. “Only that I carry a Messenger from the Woodland Realm.” 

 

“Well,” the Man looks again to him, and this time his face pulls down into a frown. Even at the brief glance of their eyes, Legolas feels his heart pick up speed, already full of nerves. “I guess Alfrid can take them to the Master. But first- c’mon, let’s sign your papers.”

 

Without another look back to him, Ruthil follows the gate-keeper into the wooden house. Legolas waits, tucking his hands into the folds of his cloak. He has been careful to keep the satchel pressed against him for the entire journey, and even now he thumbs the soft material, ensures that neither it nor its contents have become damp. 

 

The air contains a sharp bite, and while he is not affected by it, he shivers as anxiety runs down his spine and twists his stomach until his breath is sharp and shallow. 

 

“From the Woodland Realm?” The gate-keeper’s voice is sharp with concern. “We haven’t heard from them for years!”

 

Though the two mortals stand inside the wooden house, Legolas can easily hear the hushed conversation between the gate-keeper and the barge-woman. _It is rude to eavesdrop_ , he knows, _but I should know what to expect if I’m going to see their Master_.

 

“Yes, it’s odd, I’ll give you that.” Ruthil admits. Her growling tones have dropped to a rasp. “But them fair folk don’t come down from their woods for nothing. It’d be best to hear them out, I’d say.” 

 

“Alrighty then. If you think it best.”

 

There is the rustling of paper, and the thud of what Legolas guesses is the stamp of approval on paper. “There you go.”

 

“And what do I do with him?” Ruthil asks with a huff. “I don’t want to take him to the Master- my bones ache for home.” 

 

“I’ll send a boy for Alfrid. He can meet the Messenger at the town centre.”

 

“Good. Oi, Elf!” Ruthil’s bellow makes him jump in his seat. There is the clomp of boots and the red-haired woman marches out from the house and stands on the landing, hands on her hips. “You comin’ or not?”

 

Caught off-guard, Legolas rises to his feet quickly, the bump of his satchel against him the only reassurance in a town that seems to move too quickly. “Now?” 

 

“Yes, now! I don’t have all day.” 

 

Carefully, Legolas pads off the barge and onto the wooden floor. It is almost a surprise to not have the ground beneath him rock or sway, and he takes a moment to steady his feet. 

 

“Master Elf,” the gate-keeper steps from the shelter of the house, nods politely at him. Even so, the wrinkled skin of his face folds into a wary expression. “We- Laketown-” he gestures clumsily to the town ahead of them, “are glad to have a Messenger from the Woodland Realm with us.” 

 

What does he say? Legolas, unsure, touches his racing heart and extends his hand towards the Man in the distinctly elven greeting. “Greetings, Man of Laketown. I am glad to be here on behalf of my King.” 

 

His words are smooth, perfect just as Messenger’s should be. Yet Ruthil eyes his outstretched hand, and her eyes flicker with something close to outrage. Yet behind her eyes there is another shadow- one that lifts her brows and pulls at her mouth. As though she expects something of him. “You didn’t give _me_ so formal a greeting!”

 

Helpless, Legolas glances at her, and then at the Man. His eyebrows are high on his face as though startled. Did he not expect a gesture of greeting? Again, he feels as though he has crossed a line, stepped unwittingly into shadows where he knows nothing. _Belathon- I wish you had taught me how to greet Men!_

 

“I- did not mean to be so rude,” he says quickly, trying to think of what to do. Though Ruthil is a simple barge-woman with a sharp tongue, _he_ has always been taught to greet each and every of his people with respect. And he does not want to offend her and ruin the talks before they can begin. With slow movements of uncertainty, he repeats the gesture, making sure to meet the woman’s widening eyes. “I greet you also, Ruthil Bargewoman.” 

 

Neither Men move, with Ruthil’s face twisting as though she has just witnessed his father trip and fall flat on his face. A mix of despair and exasperation fills him- how has he overstepped now? Did he not greet her properly? _Fool_ , _I have done it again!_  

 

“We-ell,” the Man says eventually, and his eyes look to the ground, the waters beside them. “I-I guess it’s best if we let you two in.” 

 

“Yes,” grateful for the intervention, Legolas nods. “That- that would be best.”

 

The flash of copper curls indicates that the barge-woman agrees with them, and then she is striding back onto her barge, placing a hand on the rudder. Her face, for once, is as unreadable as the waters beside them. Yet as he follows her and takes his seat, the rush of her emotions against him are coloured with confusion, and the heavy weight of suspicion. Somehow through his attempt to be polite he has earned only her distrust, and he shifts in his seat, uncomfortable with the prickle of her gaze against his back. 

 

“Raise the gate!” The gate-keeper shouts, and ahead there is the clank of armoured men on wooden platforms, and then the shudder of metal as the heavy toll-gate rises. Of course, being a mortal town they have no magic that keeps their gate closed, nor spells to open it, but it jars him- an unexpected reminder of the differences between their races. 

 

_Perhaps_ , he realises, _they did not expect me to greet them in the elvish way. But how else would a Messenger greet them? I do not know any mortal customs, nor did Belathon tell me how._

 

These troubled thoughts are stilled as they travel through the town. It is overwhelming, the sudden surge of many mortal _faes_ against him- each fly about him, speaking- shrieking- whispering of their troubles, their joys, their experiences. He does not dare to touch them, not when he already knows of their brightness, and so settles to looking at the buildings and people around him.

 

It is a world away from the carven Halls of his father. Gone is the filtered light, the elegant structures of wood and stone, the bubbling laughter and music of his people. This world, much like the Men themselves, is harsh and loud and- and completely _fascinating_. 

 

Women peer out of their houses at the barge, some even waving down at Ruthil, while others chatter to one another with babes perched on their skirt-ladened hips. Men stride about the houses, haggle with one another, smile with their women-folk. Elders sit in the shade of their wooden houses, watching the barges go past them as they do the seasons. 

 

And the _children_ \- where his people have but one or two elflings for the turn of many seasons, he is amazed to see how this town near bursts with manlings. They race about with the careless energy of youth, heedless of the icy waters only a footstep from their tiny, vulnerable bodies. Their _faer_ to his awed eyes are the most brilliant of all, blazing with the light of their spirits as though the Star-Kindler herself has bent down and kissed a star into their skin. 

 

His own spirit burns in his chest as it responds to the town. Where once it was content to wait out the seasons- the turn of his _years_ , as he has heard Men refer to time- now it pulls at his very bones, tries to reach out and follow the twisting and turning of mortal time. All anxiety he has felt is lost amongst the pull of his spirit, eager to join in the rhythm of their lives. 

 

And yet, he cannot follow them. He is made for the slow travel of earth, the ancient ageing of his people- unused is he to this race and crash of Men, their hasty paths and unseen fates. His _fae_ is not for their twisting paths, their whittled lives; it is weighted with the bonds of his family. To try and break free of those bonds and follow after the town of Men, he is suddenly certain, would mean disaster. 

 

The words of Hissaelon travel back to him. _“Beautiful their fëar are, and yet painful when we edhil find ourselves caught in their light.”_

 

_I must not_ , he presses down on his chest and feels the leap of his spirit slowly sink back into its cage. _I am of the Eldar. I cannot follow them_. 

 

Ruthil docks the barge by the marketplace, and even though _anor_ is clouded and still weak in the sky, the trades-place is already bustling with Men. Several stop right in their tracks when they realise that there is an Elf within their town, and his skin shivers as the countless gazes of others land on him, travelling over the luxurious red cloak, soft leather boots and golden braids. A heady mix of fear and apprehension rises up in him, stiffening his limbs. 

 

“Here is where you get off, Master Elf. The town centre is right through the marketplace- Alfrid will meet you there.” The woman’s mouth presses into a frown as she looks over him, the fine clothing he wears. “You’d best be off now.”

 

Legolas shakes off the stiffness as best he can, standing on unsteady feet. His stomach twists with nerves as a ripple of surprise runs through the air as those who had not previous spotted him now do so. His ears twitch at the townspeople’s hisses, their whispers and grumbles. “And- and what does Alfrid look like?”

 

Ruthil’s gaze lightens until she looks almost amused. “Oh, you’ll know that slimy piece of fish-spawn when you see him.”

 

Completely unsure as to what to say to _that_ , Legolas chooses to incline his head. Whoever this Alfrid is, it is clear that he is not a well-liked member of their town! 

 

The woman nods brusquely in return, and taking his cue he steps from the barge and up and onto the wooden landing of the town.

 

Watching the town of Men is entirely different from being amongst them, he quickly realises. People do not care that they push into an Elf, and the spill of people about him is like the many currents of a river. All have their own purposes- men with white hair whose days should be spent in the shade of trees and resting, instead haul up fish-traps onto the paved stones, and women haggle for bread that Cook Maeasson would be appalled to serve.

 

It is overwhelming, to be pulled in a thousand directions, to have Men surrounding him and heedless that he stands alone and unsure of where to go. With only himself to guide his path, he finds his feet to be rooted on the stones, his chest aching as he recalls how once Faervel would have lead him around such a place without fuss. 

 

_No_ , he tells himself firmly, pushing down the ache of longing for his aunt, her familiar face. _I am a Messenger now, not an elfling. I came here to trade, not to look back and miss my family_. 

 

But before he can take another step, the tugging he has felt ever since he has left the forest suddenly becomes a _pull_ \- and abruptly there is a great wave of emotions rolling over him- ones that do not belong to him. 

 

_Ada_ \- the sweep of such a powerful mind is impossible to ignore, even though a lake and a forest lies between them. A roar of paralysing fear, breathless rage and countless other emotions strains the bond between them, and Legolas knows immediately that his trickery- his treachery- has been discovered. 

 

But he cannot give in to this storm of emotions- not when the Master and his path awaits him. 

 

Desperately he tries to pull away, draw himself out from the tumult of his father’s grip. It is almost impossible- his father yanks at their bond until it becomes almost unbearable, searching for a way to pull him back to the Halls. 

 

Legolas does not dare utter a sound, not when even the slightest of noises will reverberate down through their bond and possibly lead him to give way to the tightening grip. He instead thrashes as a catfish caught upon a line, resisting the reeling in of his mind, struggling furiously to keep his hard-won freedom- 

 

Something slams into him, knocking him down to the hard touch of the warf. The slam of rough, wet wood against his hands and knees causes a _snap_ to run up his mind as the heavy touch of his father is dislodged abruptly from the hold on his _fae_. 

 

“Watch it!” Growls a clumping figure, a trap of fish hauled up on one shoulder. They don’t pause to help him to his feet, but instead melt into the crowd as quickly as they appeared. 

 

Legolas scrambles quickly to his feet, dodging the trample of heavy boots and disgruntled mutterings. His heart beats frantically against the inside of his ears as he checks the lump of his satchel, wipes his scraped hands on the fabric of his cloak. It is only through pure luck that he managed to-to- _discourage-_ the painful grasp of his father’s mind, and he is suddenly aware of how easily he can be distracted, how quickly a King’s mind can fall upon him. _Ivon that was close!_

 

With a shudder he breathes in the cold air, feels it coil in his lungs. His entire body trembles, drained weak from the effort of holding back his father. This time there is no triumph to follow such an act, but a slow ache that creeps up his chest and settles in his bones. 

Trying to ignore the pungent odour of fish, he staggers on towards the marketplace. His legs wobble underneath him as he keeps to the side of the street, wishing to avoid the current of individuals who ebb and flow about him. Yet even despite his attempts, there is not one person who does not look at him. 

 

Amongst such a hardened people, he is uncomfortably aware of his own differences- and somewhat grateful for the distraction it brings. Though their _faer_ burn against his senses as a flame held against his skin, it is _they_ who pause on the golden braids peeking from under the cowl of his cloak, they who linger over the the soft leather boots and finely woven tunic. 

 

But rather than the admiration which Aeglostor once told him all mortals displayed upon meeting one of the _Eldar_ , it is rather envy and longing that presses deep into their eyes. Hunger is swift to follow, and pulls at their mouths, drawing cruel marks across their faces. 

 

Where earlier on the barge he had seen only joy and felt awe swell in his _fae_ , now amidst them he instead finds a weary resignation, and tastes the slow rise of pity in his throat. Most put on smiles that do not reach their eyes, and rare are the people whose cheeks and arms are filled out with the indications of a constant supply of good food. 

 

Yet their _faer_ are still strong against his mind, full of a determined force that comes from seasons of living under such conditions. _They are a hardy people_ , he tells himself when the crushing weight of pity slows his feet and shallows his breath, _and will not want my pity_. 

 

Reaching the market-place, he finds that it is not well-named, for it barely consists of a few stalls tucked under the overhang of houses. All of the interwoven stands contain items that have none of the lustre of wealth; mostly it is clothing, or various assortments of dried fish-parts. It is a far cry from the luxurious silks of the King’s Halls, the plentiful platters of food that his family once groaned over, but the stall-owners still watch over their meagre offerings with pride and bargain readily with their customers.

 

Yet he does not allow himself to linger in the wood-lined streets, nor peer at the trinkets and scraps of cloth on offer. Veering away from the stalls he continues on towards the town centre. While Men continue to openly stare, his mind is too full of turmoil to notice their glances. 

 

Underneath his cloak, his fingers tremble against the satchel he clutches tight within his fingers. He is caught with fear- the fear of failure. His heart kicks in his chest at the thought of standing before the Master- the thought of trying to make conversation with a Man he does not know is daunting. It is what he has journeyed all the way to the town for, and yet- what if he fails?

 

What will he say to Belathon if he does not speak properly and persuade the Master? How can he possibly justify breaching his father’s Halls if he returns empty-handed? 

Or worse- what if the Master takes one look at him and sees that he is no more than an elfling dressed up in the clothes of another, and turns him away? 

 

As he walks amongst the mud-lined street towards the town centre, Legolas forces himself to take a breath of the cool autumn air. He is of the Eldar- he should not quail before the idea of facing a Man, no matter how high his station! What is more, he has- through sheer luck- fended off the great mind of his father, and has faced down the elven-wise gaze of his own father when at his most furious. 

 

How can any Man- even a Master- compare to standing before those cold eyes? 

 

_I must do as Hissaelon advised_ , he thinks as he reaches the centre, stepping aside for the people who pass him. _I must act not as a Prince, but as a Messenger of the King whose word is my law.I cannot accept anything less than what the King asks. I must do all of this, if I am to be believed, and be successful_. 

 

He is surprised to find the square swept clean of all muck, oddly contrasting to the surroundings about it. And the house which branches forth is no less impressive for it being old wood, boasting a massive structure and many colour-stained windows. It stands amongst the faded houses and old structures as a brightly-coloured jay bird amongst brown-feathered wrens. 

 

_Ivon_ \- he sends up a quick prayer to the Lady of the Forest, pleads for her favour as he steps up into the sweeping balcony of the house. His _fae_ leaps in his chest, following after the anxious sweep of his mind. _Let me speak well!_

 

Up the broad flight of wooden stairs he goes, and stops before the guards posted there. By now he is sure that word has travelled of his arrival, for neither of the armoured Men move to stop him. 

 

“I am here as a Messenger on behalf of King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm,” Legolas says, and his voice is as steady as the smooth surface of a deep pond. Even so, a tremor run through his fingers as he reaches up and removes the hood of his cloak, exposing his golden hair, the pointed ears. “I seek words with the Master of your town.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all liked this chapter! It took a while to get, as I fiddled with some scenes and had to cut out others. Let me know what you think :)
> 
> Sindarin: Fae- spirit   
> Faer- spirits


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Legolas meets the Master of Laketown, and delivers his message

Light trickles in weakly through the stained-glass windows as Legolas is lead through the chambers of the Master. 

 

The guards had not hesitated to let him in when he’d proven his claim with his distinctly fey features, and while he is aware that a visit from an _edhel_ is rare, he still is surprised at how quickly they let him enter the Master’s halls. 

 

_But perhaps Halls is the wrong name_ , he thinks ruefully, for the place he enters is not so much like his own Realm and its sweeping design, but rather a shadowed, squat building. It is far less grand than he had expected of a nobleman, with the floor beneath him an old, creaking wood, and the sitting rooms to either side of the entrance hall cluttered with slow-rotting furniture. He is not permitted to enter much further than these rooms, and is directed to stand in one by the guards. 

 

At first he lingers by the doorway, unable to hide the prickle of unease at the heavy layer of darkness that spreads across the chamber. From walking amongst a bright forest and having sunlight pour into his skin, the contrast of the Master’s house and its gloom makes the elven blood within him protest. 

 

But with the eyes of the guards upon him, he reluctantly enters the room. What surfaces available to sit on are covered either with a thick layer of dust or overflowing with scrolls of paper, and he feels as conspicuous standing in the dim room with his red cloak and fine clothing as the bloom of a rose amongst dark brambles.

 

“If you’d just wait here a moment, Master Elf.” One of the guards- an older Man with a tuft of ginger hair on his chin, and a _fae_ tinged with impatience- says with a nod to an unstable-looking chair. “I will fetch the Master’s councillor, who will bring down the Master for your pleasure.”

 

“V-Very good,” Legolas nods in return, and tentatively takes a seat on the edge of the chair. A damp, heavy smell of stale air, rotting wood and the pungent odour of unwashed skin hangs in the air, and he has to resist the urge to crinkle his nose. None of his people would ever abide by such mess in their Halls, but of course he is amongst Men now and they are every inch a different race. 

 

The second guard, with the wide eyes of a youth, coughs suddenly. Legolas turns to look at him, simultaneously feeling a rise of curiosity from the mortal _fae_. The Man has a tussle of brown curls that dangle to his chin, and soft eyes the shade of spring-water. Again, it is his impossibly bright spirit that draws Legolas’ attention; it blazes from the wide eyes, twists underneath what skin he can see from the layers of armour he wears. 

 

“Is...pardon me, Master Elf, for daring to ask, but I can imagine your- your home- it must be quite different from my town?” The youth looks nervous for even daring to speak to him, his fingers twisting together. 

 

Legolas feels warmth rise up in him, loosening the nervous knot in his stomach. Few people have so far displayed a curiosity for him that goes beyond staring at him, and he is eager to interact with one who is openly interested.

 

“It is,” he agrees, folding his hands into his lap. The Man’s eyes follow the movement, and linger over the rich folds of fabric which he wears. With the unashamed boldness of curiosity, he glances upon Legolas’ childish braids and the pointed tips of his ears. 

 

It is still uncomfortable, having another stare at the markers of his race- he feels the same way a bug would feel under the eye of a curious person, scrutinised in every way. _But then, he is a Man_ , he thinks, _and he probably hasn’t seen an edhel before_. _And haven’t I been unashamed in studying him too?_

 

“My people dwell mostly in a great Hall to the north of _Eryn Galen_ , in a section of caves hewn from living rock, but some still live amongst the trees in _talans_.” 

 

Curiously, the Man’s cheeks flush red when he sees that Legolas has noticed the path of his gaze. It is as though the fire of his spirit will not be contained just to itself. “I- that must be wonderful.”

 

“Living amongst rock or trees?” Legolas asks. “For I imagine living in caves is similar to what it is like to live here, dark as it is.” He cannot help tease, and waves his hand to the dark room around them. 

 

Again the Man flushes, and it is accompanied by a prickle of indignation from their brilliant _fae_. “We grow short of light in autumn, and the Master uses most of the candles available to brighten his house.” 

 

“So it is like our Halls, then,” Legolas says lightly, eager to strike a similarity between him and these strange people. “For we too use as much light as possible to illuminate our homes, both of _anor_ and candles.”

 

The clomp of heavy feet upon hollow stairs immediately has the guard straightening, and their conversation is ended as suddenly as the _thump_ of a book being shut.

Legolas feels his stomach tighten with nerves as there is the wash of another intrusive mortal mind against his senses. It is not long before a Man rounds the corner of the room, dressed entirely in black and with shifting dark eyes that fall immediately on Legolas. 

 

Well- not on him, but rather on the wealth he displays. Luxury can be seen through the fabric he carries about his shoulders, and the gold that is caught in the strands of his hair. In the brief heartbeat before the Man offers greeting, he looks as though he is mentally calculating his very worth, the promises of glory Legolas will bring to their town. This thought clenches at his stomach, and a great sense of unease washes over him. 

 

The mortal attempts a smile, baring yellowed teeth. “Welcome, Messenger of Thranduil.” His voice is slick, like the winding flash of an eel, the wriggle of cold skin before it sinks hooked teeth deep into its victim. “I am Alfrid, councillor to the great Master of Laketown, who will be receiving you this way.” 

 

One hand extends from beneath the heavy black coat, gesturing out of the room. “If you’d please accompany me.”

 

“Of course,” Legolas says, and tries to hide the shake in his voice as he rises from the chair. All warmth is gone from him, and his skin prickles against the cool air, warning him of this unwelcome presence. Never has he felt such a warning shaken into him simply from being in the _presence_ of another, but it is clear that the fey blood which lays claim to his veins will not allow such an oversight in his judgement. But why should a Man cause such a response?

 

His step is careful as he follows after the councillor, watches the sweep of the black coat just above the worn floorboards. The Man- Alfrid- leads him down a shadowed hallway and then into a room which stands as the receiving chamber. 

 

He knows this from the Man which sits behind a cluttered wooden desk upon a carven chair embossed with gold. Stained windows stretch all down the wall, eager to draw in as much light as possible and illuminate the large figure which sits before him. 

 

While it remains without the imposing sense that the throne-room of his father carries, he can still feel the faint echo of power circulating the room, something that all leaders must keep with them. 

 

Yet the Man who sits upon his chair does not carry power in his fingers, nor in the blink of his eyes. Where Legolas has faced down glacial eyes and a form as still as that of a panther about to strike, he now stands before a Man thick with fat and with watery blue eyes that squint down at him from his seat. A Man who is apparently the Master of Laketown. 

 

Dressed in a purple overcoat and with unflatteringly combed strands of ginger hair that dangle to his shoulders, he has clearly been in the act of drinking wine. The hair which sprouts and droops from puffy lips is stained red, and there is the lingering smell of heady wine in the air. 

 

“Master,” the councillor says from beside Legolas, and ducks his head down into a bow. “I present a Messenger from the magnificent King of Elves.” 

 

“Ah!” Says the Master of Laketown, and then immediately burps into the ruff of his sleeve. The sound is watery and so unexpected that Legolas nearly chokes on a bubble of laughter which threatens to escape, and has to bite down on his lip to keep from smiling. No leader has ever _burped_ in front of him!

 

Despite his disbelief, the Man carries on as though nothing has occurred and raises a bejewelled hand, beckoning for him to step closer. “Welcome, Messenger of our great friend and ally, the eminent King Thranduil!” 

 

_This is the grand Master of Laketown?_ Legolas hopes the doubt does not show on his face as he inclines his head. 

 

“I am here,” he says, and to his humiliation his voice is no longer steady, but chooses to give way beneath the weight of his words. Quickly, he clears it and continues, “on behalf of my King, Thranduil Staff-Wielder and Defender of Eryn Galen, to deliver a message relating to trade between our peoples.”

 

Uncertainty pulls at his chest as the Master leans back and adjusts his massive girth against the table. _Do I read the message now? Or do I wait for his command?_

 

“Well,” puffs the Master, “I am sure it has been a long and arduous journey you-” he burps again, the entirety of his frame leaping with the sound- “have taken, to be here with us. Long indeed has it been since we have had word from the illustrious Elvenking Thranduil!” 

 

“Long indeed,” interrupts the black-clad councillor, and steps up beside Legolas, not hiding the look of envy as he runs his eyes across his frame. “We wondered if you’d forgotten us, as your kind tend to do.”

 

Seasons of lessons in trade and polite words with Badhron rush across his mind, and Legolas inclines his head tightly to the councillor. “My people do not forget those we hold close to us,” he says, and with a thrill of daring he meets and holds the Man’s envious gaze. “And your people have been irreplaceable in their ferrying our wine.” 

 

Many times he has been told that no _edain_ can bear the weight of an elven gaze for long- even one as young as his- and he is proven correct when Alfrid quickly slides his eyes to the bulging figure of his Master. Triumph rushes up his skin. 

 

“Well said,” the Master says, burping again. “For we do hold your King and people close to us, and his will is ever our- command. Now tell me, Messenger of the sagacious Thranduil Elvenking, have you eaten?”

 

“Eaten?” Legolas echoes, unable to stop himself. Belathon had told him that he was to read the message first, and _then_ feast- not the other way around! 

 

“Yes,” the councillor speaks up for his Master, disdain tinging his voice, “eaten. My Master would not want his most well-regarded guest to be hungry before delivering his message.” 

 

Panic enfolds him. What should he do? Does the Master mean to break his fast with him? 

 

“No- I have not eaten,” he says slowly, glancing to the Master for signs of upset. The Man simply gives him a smile. “But I am not hungry. I have been provided with some waybread, and-”

 

“Pish-posh, come now!” The Master interrupts, his smile disappearing as he waves a hand. “Whatever elf-bread you have been supplied with will- pale- in comparison to my hearty food. Let us break our fast with a plate of- of- Alfrid?” The Man looks to his councillor. “What can we offer our most esteemed guest?”

 

“Whatever you wish, Sire.” The councillor gives his Master another bow, eyes flickering to Legolas. Disdain rises from his _fae_ as the choking tendrils of a vine. “I will go down to the Cooks and see that they summon some food for you both.”

 

“Yes, yes, thank you Alfrid.” The Master waves a hand dismissively, and with another sour look to Legolas the councillor thuds off. 

 

“Now then,” the Master turns his smile down to Legolas, leaning forward in his seat with a creak of wood. “Come closer, my most splendid guest- let me hear this message you bring from the sublime Elvenking.” 

 

Surprise jolts Legolas- he had expected that the Master would want for his councillor to be with him. It is as though every assumption he has made of these Men are unravelling before his eyes. “Do you not wish to wait for your councillor, leader of Laketown?”

 

“I can read without Alfrid’s aid, Messenger.” The Master returns, a hint of irritation in his voice. “Come now, read it for me.” 

 

“V-Very well.” Legolas fumbles for his satchel within the folds of fabric, opens the bag and draws the scroll to him. 

His heart pounds in his ears, reminding him of his purpose. _I cannot fail- I mustn’t fail- I must remember what Hissaelon told me-_

 

The clearing of the Master’s throat pulls him from his frantic thoughts. He takes a breath, nods up at the Man, and begins to read the elegant scrawl. 

 

“To the Master upon the Lake, I, Thranduil Elvenking, wish you and your people well in this cold season of autumn, and hope that such changes in the waters of your town finds you all with plentiful stocks of food. For many seasons your people have been an irreplaceable trading partner with my Realm, providing us always with wine that reflects your hard efforts.”

 

“Ever is the Elvenking gracious to us!” The Master interrupts, his broad face twisting into a grin. “Please continue, Messenger of the sagacious King of Elves.” 

 

Legolas takes a breath, looks down at the following words. “However as the days grow longer, and the Shadow spreads across my Realm, my council and I find that your- your-” 

 

The words on his tongue still as he reads further on- his heart begins to beat quickly against his skin, a pressure that grows as he looks down the elegant line of words. 

 

_The message doesn’t make sense_. 

 

While the scrawl resembles his father’s hand, the words within the message do not. Not at all. He takes another breath, one that shudders in his lungs. About him all is still, the call of Men to one another far away and distant, as though the town is waiting for his words. “Your supplies of wine and grain, which have once brought my people great pleasure, are- are no longer required…”

 

“ _What?_ ” The Master reels back in his chair, the wooden legs groaning under the sudden shift of his weight. His bloated fingers scrabble to grasp the arms of his chair, as though needing support. “What does he mean- _no longer required_?” 

 

The blood roars in Legolas’ ears as he reads on silently. The words before him seem to blur in and out of focus, taunting him with their meaning. The simple roll of parchment he holds in his hands, once seeming so simple, now weighs more than he can bear.

 

If he continues to voice the message, he will be ruining all trade and friendship between the town upon the Lake and his own Realm. He will be allowing not only his people to go hungry through relying on what food they can source from their forest, but also removing all hopes for the Men of the Lake for a prosperous life. 

 

Yet since Belathon had given him this message- one from his own father- how can he refuse it? His stomach writhes. _How can Belathon want me to read_ this _? He wanted me to bring_ more _wealth to my people, not end all communications with our allies!_

 

“Well- is that all?” The Master’s voice is shrill, and the sharpness of his tone jolts Legolas. 

 

“No, sir, there is more.” He admits, and his entire _rhaw_ is stiff as he continues with a message that does not make sense. 

 

“With the growing threat of the Shadow across my Realm, a decision has been made to- to withdraw all links of trade from my partners, and I wish only that-”

 

“ _WHAT_? Alfrid!” The Master rises from his seat, struggling with his great girth. His ruddy cheeks have deepened to crimson, and the table trembles as he smashes a fist down onto the wood. The sound makes Legolas flinch. “You- you-”

 

“What is the meaning of this?” all solicitude is gone as the councillor returns from kitchens holding two steaming plates of food. Immediately he dumps the platters on the crowded table and rushes to the large Man’s side. “Do you mean to give the Master a heart attack?”

 

“Not at all,” Legolas returns quickly. His voice quivers, fingers crumpling the parchment he holds. _I have to do something- this is wrong-_ “And- and I believe there to be a mistake, for my King gave no indiction that-”

 

“Don’t give us your petty excuses,” the black-clad Man hisses before he can finish his sentence. “We know how you treat those you see as beneath you! Master- Master come now,” he turns to the outraged figure above them, “whatever this- this Elf said- it does not matter-”

 

“It does matter when he wants to withdraw our trade agreement!” The Master sputters, and his face is twisted into a glower as he looks down at Legolas. “Look at the parchment, Alfrid! Here- give it to me!”

 

“Sir,” Legolas moves to take a step back, “I do not think you understand-”

 

“He said give it!” Without hesitation, Alfrid snatches the roll of parchment from his grip and hands it over to the distraught Man. 

 

Anger roars in Legolas as equally as shock. “That message is from my King!” He says lowly, “and I only wish to remind you-”

 

The Master gives a cry, beating one hand against his chest. “Oh! It is true- look, Alfrid! The Elvenking wishes to- to-”

 

“Dump us,” Alfrid finishes, eyes narrowed. He appears to have not even heard Legolas’ words, nor sees the shock that stiffens his _rhaw_. “What thanks we get, for all our years of service to that stuck-up King!”

 

Outrage darkens Legolas’ vision. “My fa- you should not speak so of my King!” He catches himself, voice lowering with anger. _How quickly these Men turn from slick praise to insults!_

 

How quickly the day which started so full of promise has now turned into one that carries the ugly scent of defeat. 

 

Beyond his anger, misery claws at his throat. _How could I have thought that I could have helped my people?_ _Instead of bringing them glory and freedom, I have singlehandedly ruined all trade with the Men, and have failed Belathon and the promise I made-_

 

The Master lifts his gaze from the paper, and looks down at Legolas. Whatever he sees has his eyes widening. “Oh- no, Alfrid, you speak too hastily. We mustn’t lower ourselves to insults, not when we stand before the Elvenking’s Messenger.”

 

“Some Messenger,” Alfrid sneers, and his dark gaze flashes- “look at him, sire! Not very tall, is he, for an Elf! I’d say sire, if I didn’t know any better, that he wasn’t even fully grown. No true Messenger of the Elves stutters like he does!” 

 

All the anger is sucked from his bones at the councillor’s words, and Legolas freezes. The truth has been noticed- his facade has lasted an even shorter amount of time than he’d hoped, and he is like an animal caught in a trap, twisting, searching for a way out. _Ivon, help me!_

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Alfrid!” By some merciful wave of fate’s hand, the Master only gives a loud snort of disbelief. “Though he has proven to be wily and disloyal, Thranduil would not send a child to do a Messenger’s work on his behalf.”

 

Those beady eyes look down at Legolas, the line of his mouth thinning with a look of displeasure. “Now-” he lifts a hand, gestures to him. “Leave us. I wish to speak alone with Alfrid.”

 

“Sir?” He can hardly breathe the word, for the shock of his near-discovery leaves his throat tight and his feet planted to the wooden floor, as though still awaiting discovery. _Hissaelon was right,_ he laments _, I should have kept my mouth shut._

 

“You heard him!” Alfrid snaps, flashing yellow teeth. “Leave us! Guards!”

 

The door behind Legolas open with a groan, and there is the rattle of a guard’s armor. “Sire?”

 

“Take this Messenger to one of the guest chambers, and see that he stays there until I want him back.” The Master flaps a hand in his direction, the other clenched tight around the scroll. 

 

“Very good, sire.” The wood beneath his feet shakes as the guard steps up to Legolas. The flare of the unfamiliar _fae_ against his mind is unwelcome, unwanted, and brings his feet to move from where they stand upon the wooden slats. “If you’d accompany me, Messenger.”

 

His chest numb with shock, Legolas does not offer either the Master nor councillor Alfrid a nod, and simply follows after the guard without a sound.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! That was a long chapter, and a difficult one to write. I hope it is worth all my efforts! 
> 
> Sindarin: Edhel- elf   
> Rhaw- body   
> Fae- spirit   
> Ivon- favoured Valar of the Elves


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Legolas struggles with ideas of failure, friendship and treachery and the author is very sorry for leaving everyone hanging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SORRY to keep y'all waiting an ENTIRE YEAR and then some. Thank you to everyone who's kudosed, bookmarked or commented on this project of mine. You all give me life.

From the cramped receiving rooms, Legolas is taken to an equally small and poorly-lit guest room. It is filled with only a vanity, basin and bed to stand out against the peeling walls and the distinct odour of mothballs and the whiff of fish. When he perches on the edge of the bed- laden with a patchwork quilt and lumpy pillow- it gives an unhappy creak.

The guards do not bother with words- having most likely heard their Master’s bellowing, both eye Legolas with varying amounts of suspicion- and are quick to shut the door behind him.

Legolas’ stomach twists, tight enough to hurt. The walls and floorboards might as well be blank, for all he can see is the look of disdain and horror on the Master’s face. _I have failed the one thing I was meant to succeed in!_

The thought is bitter against his tongue, but worse still is the fear of returning home to his father’s Halls and receiving nothing but anger and outrage. _Belathon will not even bother to look at me_ \- _and worse, I will have let down my entire Realm_.

A whisper of cool air touches his face, stirs him from the ache in his chest. There is a window that has been left slightly ajar to allow in some of the sharp autumn breeze, and it promises the sort of relief that accompanies a high perch and solitude.

Freedom from the stifling room is all he can think of, his limbs trembling and heart pushing to escape. He does not dare risk misplacing his most prized possession, so with as much ease as he can find in a long cloak and satchel, he jumps up onto the sill and crouches on the balls of his feet.

The drop beneath the window is a steep one, ending only in the promise of icy waters- a slash of blue against the drained wooden paths below. However, being on the top floor of the Master’s house, the overhang of the roof is close enough for him to brush his fingers against…..and- _there_!

There is purchase against the slick tiles, a crack in their worn wooden slats, and with a puff of air and flex of his legs, Legolas pushes off the sill and hauls himself up onto the outcrop of the roof, limbs trembling with the effort. For a heartbeat he dangles midair, the safety of the windowsill abandoned and his _rhaw_ shuddering.

But Legolas recalls the times where he has climbed up trees and leapt from the safety of spell-sung stones, and with one final swing of his legs, he lifts himself up onto the roof, the breath sharp between his teeth and his heart pounding triumphantly.

The reward for his efforts is the entirety of the town stretching out before him, whether he looks left or right. He can track each barge as it travels through the paths of the town, and watch the Men as they go about their business. There is peace to be found in their movements, the way they find their paths no matter that the mist rolls out onto the houses and trickles down the town.

Beyond the town, the steep climb of the Lonely Mountain is cradled in the light of the sun, dimmed though she is by the grasp of clouds. Where the town does not contain the same majesty as his forest, Legolas realises there is beauty in the ripple of the lake and the light of _anor_ slipping through the clouds.

And just as he’d hoped, the relative height of his perch allows him to be distracted from the failure of the talks, and the weight of humiliation in his chest. The harsh air brings a slow trickle of relief and carries with it the faint scent of his forest, far away though he is from its autumn-shaded leaves.

He takes a breath. Slowly, the panic that had been swallowing him whole begins to retreat, slinking out from him.

Though the message and its contents is disastrous, there surely must be a way for him to get through the talks. _Belathon knew what he was doing when he gave me the message- he trusted me to be diplomatic, to find a solution to this strange proposal._

And even though he feels as though the talks hold the same impossibility as him having to traverse the Misty Mountains in a night, he has sworn to help his people. He must be strong- steel himself to what is to come.

_I made a promise to them- to make them proud, to honour them, and I cannot falter now. Not even with a message as difficult as this._

* * *

 

To his surprise, Legolas finds a guard waiting for him when he returns to his cramped quarters. They stand by the open door, and warily watch as he slides down off the windowsill and drops with a thump to the floor.

“Messenger,” the guard says, “your presence is requested at the Master’s feast this night.”

A feast? He has been dreading the guards storming in and ordering him to return to the Halls! Not…not for an announcement to attend a dinner in front of the entire town!

“Of course,” Legolas agrees hastily, even though confusion clouds his mind, and unease stirs in his chest. Perhaps the Master will try and debate with him at the feast? While it is not the custom of his people to throw about political discussions when feasting, the Men of the Lake perhaps prefer such discussion.

_There it will be the time where I must prove my worth in words_ , he thinks as the guard departs from his room. Like Hissaelon had warned him, he must try and uphold the underlying demands of the message. He mustn’t give way to anything less than what his King asks….

Give way?

An idea stirs in him and steals the breath from his lungs.

He won’t be _giving way_ if he debates with the Master and somehow- _accidentally_ \- makes an agreement with the Master to escape the knot the message has tied them all in. He would simply be bartering for a way to keep both his people and the Men happy!

_But battling with words can be dangerous_ , Lhosben’s oft-given advice- cautions him. _While_ _you could find that where you mean one thing, they perceive many more_.

It takes a moment for Legolas to swallow down his doubt. He never has been any good at winning arguments- the last few days prove asmuch. This task will take care, then, and a wisdom he does not have- but must play at having.

But above all else, he must restore what honour he can to both the Men of the Lake, and his people.

_Eru Above,_ he thinks desperately _, let me have the right words!_

* * *

 

The rest of the day passes swiftly. Confined to his rooms, Legolas nibbles on a corner of _lembas_ when his hunger grows too great to ignore, and clambers back onto the roof to watch the day hurry on. Though he is restricted in his movements, it is not like before- not like when he was nothing but an ornament for his Realm.

Here he is a guest, someone who has a purpose, and that thought eases the unhappiness that surges with the limited quarters.

The guards who stand fidgeting outside of his rooms do not seem to care that he leaves behind the small quarters for the fresh air and endless sky outside of his window. It makes his heart thrill to watch the town at work, as he would thrill to sit at the top of a tree and listen to the world move around him.

How fascinating Men are! Several times he spies the same menfolk striding back and forth from the docks to the market, carrying basket after basket of items, and the same women standing guard over their stalls and shops. Instead of following the journey of _anor_ through the sky, the inhabitants of the town seem to race against her light, rushing to complete their day’s work in what little time is left to them. Even the children heed the change in her light, obediently following their parents’ calls to return indoors when the town begins to seep in shadows.

A familiar ache stirs in his heart as he spots several children tumbling into a worn, warmly-lit house. Their eager, piping voices drift up to reach his ears, and he listens as they repeat the day’s adventures to the amusement of their weary, welcoming parents. He does not dare touch the dormant bonds in his _fae_ , not when his head still rings with the faint echo of his father’s power, but the ache deepens nonetheless.

Beneath him, the door to his room opens with a groan and the surprised voices of a guard reaches his ears. “Where’s he gone now?”

Alarm makes his heart leap. The feast! Looking to the sky proves that he has allowed the day to slip through his mind with little care. Already _anor_ is decorating her surroundings in splashes of pink and orange, encouraging her shadows to spread.

“ _Ai_ , you fool!” He hisses. Quickly, he slides down the tiles and swings back down onto the windowsill. The surprised face of a guard greets him when he perches on the old frame. “I am here.”

“The- the Master asks that you join him in his feast.” His guard is not a tall Man, but his _fae_ gives the illusion of filling the room to bursting, and Legolas tries not to squint against the sudden waves of unease and wariness pushing against him. “You can leave your satchel and cloak behind.”

“Of course,” Legolas is careful to smile at the Man as he slips down to the floor and puts aside his cloak and bag. The sudden absence of weight from his hip and shoulders feels strange, and he hastily smooths down the crinkled lines of his tunic.

“I- I did not bring any finery with me,” he admits as he follows the Man from his room. “Do you think this tunic is…is well-suited?”

They are the words of a child, and Legolas flushes immediately with regret. But all the guard does is spare him a single glance. “’Tis fine enough.”

The walk to the feasting room is in silence, for the Man’s stiff shoulders give a clear sign that conversation is not wanted. Legolas does not entirely mind, as nerves are beginning to flutter in his stomach.

_Somehow I must negotiate for trade to continue between our peoples, but act as though I have been forced into such a position_. The anxiety grows in strength until he feels as though an entire flock of ravens have taken up refuge in his stomach. _I must stay calm, and speak well-_

The guard halts before the open doors of a once-finely decorated room. It is the largest room he has seen in the town, with an arching ceiling and the wallpaper a faded green, trimmed with gold. A table stands in the centre, near-buckled under the weight of platters of food still hot from the kitchens.  

And there is a distinct absence of people- only the Master sits at one end of the enormous table.

Legolas glances uncertainly to the guard. “Where are the rest of your people?”

The guard returns his gaze with a look of confusion. “The rest?”

Confused, Legolas gestures to the room and the food-laden table. Uncertainty makes his stomach drop. “Do you… do you not feast with all your people?”

The guard’s answer is cut off by the Master rising, with some difficulty, from his full plate and plush chair. “Ah! Messenger Elf, do come in!”

Legolas has little choice but to obey. Whatever polite words of greeting he had prepared instead dry out against his tongue, caught in surprise at the revelation that a feast for Men equals to what he would think of as a private dinner. His words will have to be far more careful than if he were surrounded by others. _Men and their customs…_

The Master does not seem to care at his silence, and waves for him to sit at the opposite end of the table. Dressed in purple, the Man has clearly made an attempt to appear more regal, for his beard and hair have been combed neatly back. The attempt is marred slightly when Legolas notices the grease already lining his lips.

“I am glad to see you here, Master Elf, and would like to extend my apologies for the morning’s…events. I was, ah, surprised at your King’s message, but no more! Tonight I am here to feast and honour my most sagacious guest.”

At last Legolas reclaims his speech. “It is no matter, Master of Laketown. I- I should have offered you and your people explanations for the meaning behind my King’s words-”

The Master raises a bejewelled hand, and Legolas instinctively falls silent. “Come now, Messenger, let us forget diplomacy and feast instead! Alfrid!”

At his call, there is the thud of reluctant feet and the councillor appears by the doorway. His dark gaze is unreadable. “Master?”

“Fetch this fine Messenger some wine, would you?” The Master asks smoothly, glancing to Legolas. “You are preferable to wine, are you not?”

“I-” Legolas nods slowly, stomach tightening. He can’t refuse. “I am.”

The heady drinks his father and brothers openly prefer have never been made available to him, and Faervel had always taken care to limit his consumption of even the watered-down stuff. His people are not exempt from the effects of such strong drink, how it can cloud even a well-hardened mind.

Now though, he senses that to be a gracious guest, he mustn’t refuse. Even if he wants to.

“Well, of course you are!” The Master replies in a manner that is almost theatrical in its loudness, “you are one of King Thranduil’s folk- and he has always been partial to our wine.” He chuckles at this, smiling down at Legolas.

“That is true,” Legolas summons a hollow smile. Through wine he managed to escape the Halls, and he does not like the thought of drinking it now. Not when he needs all the wits he can summon. “And my King’s reliance on it should- will continue for many more seasons, if…if we can talk.”

“Talk?” The Master pops a slab of meat into his mouth and wipes his grease-slick fingers on the breast of his tunic. “On- on what?”

“On the message I brought to you today,” Legolas says, and nods politely to Alfrid’s hand as a large goblet of wine is set down beside him. The powerful scent of the dorwinion reaches up to him, an inescapable reminder.

Maybe he could feign drinking? Take small sips?  

“We feast tonight, Messenger,” Alfrid sneers down at him. “Not talk politics. We have heard quite enough of what your message says.”

“Peace, Alfrid,” the large Man raises a hand to his councillor. “I wish to eat, not argue.”

“Sir!” The wooden floor shudders under the rapid steps of heavy feet, and the doors groan as a guard stumbles through. His _fae_ is practically sparking off him with the intensity of his alarm, and immediately scatters the tentative peace that had begun to grow. “Sir, there- there-”

“What are you doing?” Alfrid rounds on the guard in a whirl of black robes. “We are having an important meal here-”

“Dwarves-” gasps the guard, and every muscle in Legolas’ body tenses at the word. “Dwarves have been found in the armoury.”

_Naugrim? So far south? Ivon Above- could it be?_

“How many?” The words fall from his mouth before he can stop them. The chances of dwarrow appearing in the Men’s town are so slim- and yet…..It can’t be. Can it?  

The guard’s brow crinkles. “I- I don’t know. Twelve? Thirteen?”

Ivon… Legolas’ throat goes dry. The same number as in his father’s prison.

“No matter how many there are!” The Master’s eyes are wide with alarm. “What matters is what they are doing here! And in my armoury!”

“They wait outside, sir, with the patrol which heard them break into the armoury.”

_Break into the armoury?_ Legolas grips the edge of his chair, tries to still his flying thoughts. _Why-_ how _\- could such a number of naugrim escape Ada’s prison?_

“Let me deal with this rabble,” the rotund Man rises from his seat with a groan of wood. His cheeks are red- from fury or wine, Legolas cannot tell. “I won’t be long, Messenger.”

Dismay- horror- shock- all compete to claim his mind, stealing away his words. How could the _naugrim_ have escaped from his father’s Halls so easily? His own escape had been one of careful planning and a good deal of luck, and a second escape- that seems as rare as finding a _Noldo_ amongst his father’s court!

Could it be they were not the same dwarves he knew of?

“Sir-” he hurriedly rises from his seat, determined not to miss the scene, “do you not wish for me to accompany you?”

“No, no” the Master does not look at him, just dismissively waves a hand. “It is a matter for me alone. Come, Alfrid.”

The dismissal has the same sting as though it had come from his father. Legolas watches as the Master and his councillor leave the room, his head spinning. The thought of staying in the empty room, surrounded by platters of uneaten food and _an entire company of naugrim_ just outside- _no_!

What if they bring news of his father’s Halls with them? He must go and see!

_But you should stay put_ , the thought pulls at him before he can do anything more than stand up from his chair. Being a guest means he must do as his host says- Faervel has made that clear more than once when delegates from Rivendell or even fair Lothlorien visited the Greenwood. They could not simply choose where and when to visit- they had to wait for his father’s permission.

“Ivon….” Legolas gives a frustrated sigh. Stay he must, if he is to be seen as respectful to his host.

And so he stays, and waits. In the quiet of the room, the muffled sounds of many voices drift up to him from just beyond the entry to the Master’s Hall. There are shouts of dismay from the people and even the low rumble of those _naugrim_. Judging from the loud words of the Master and the agreeing roars of the people, it appears that the _naugrim_ do not hold any sway over Laketown- and well they shouldn’t!

They should not be trusted, if they managed to escape his father’s prison _and_ his Halls- a feat that, now that he thinks on it, has not been done before.

Abruptly, his _fae_ seizes. What had happened during their escape? How had they managed to slip past the guards? Had they cast some sort of dwarven spell? Was that even possible?

A darker thought falls on him. Could things have turned violent?

For a moment he is tempted to touch the bonds within his _fae_ , and feels the longing to reach out and _speak_ tighten his chest. It has been a long while since _Ada_ attempted to make contact. Perhaps he would not notice…

Like one would pluck harp strings, Legolas summons up the intricate weaving of bonds, pulls along their fine strands in the hopes of slipping into another’s view. His link with Aeglostor is a dull glow, permanently closed off. Annith- she burns against his fingers as the hot press of a brand. It is easy to share with her, for she leaves her bond open to all.

Legolas presses close, and-

Trees burst up in front of him, the air smelling of sweat and leather. A circle of sand and dust stretch underneath his feet. The training barracks- he is in the training barracks! An _ellon_ , padded with protective gear, stands in front of him, sword raised warily. He too grips a blade in one hand, and twitches with the urge to strike- _now_!

Legolas flinches back, but not as his sister- as himself. Surprise lights up his mind in answer. A voice- _her voice_ \- pierces him like a hawk’s talons. _Laeslas?_

Something in him moves at the name. Horror rises as he feels the unmistakable tugging of spells layered about him like the snare around a rabbit. They are woven tightly, masterfully, and a flash of insight strikes panic. His father has always been better with spell-work than diplomacy, and these ones are intent on pulling him home-

With great force that comes from the roar of panic, Legolas snaps back into himself, shuts off the bonds which have lit up like fire on greenbark.

“Ah!” He gasps, and digs his fingers into the carefully-worked table. “Fool!” The call of his father’s spells is strong, and it feels as though every muscle in his body has locked up in response. _Resist_ , he thinks desperately. _You must resist!_

His entire _rhaw_ trembles, and for a moment he is sure that the spells lie around him still; waiting, tugging, urging-

Legolas scrabbles for purchase as though he were back on the roof, feels the cold slide of chains over his back, across his legs- _tightening_ -

_No!_ He cries, summoning as much force as he can. _NO!_

There is a _snap-_ and Legolas falls back into himself. The Master’s dinner-table wavers in front of him, and the smell of meat and fresh vegetables mix in a powerful aroma. He has never been so grateful for the sight of peeling wallpaper and platters of food.

_Fool_ , he berates himself viciously, near-panting from the effort of repelling spell-work. _You are as thick and slow as honey!_ How could he have been so dull-minded as to think that _Ada_ would not have set spell-work around his bonds? Again he’d been so close to being caught- and this time through his own hand!

And yet, for all his searching, he still does not know if any of his people were hurt in the escape of their captives. Forlorn, he looks down at where his hand rests against the table-top and watches his fingers tremble. No use searching now, when his father has-

A cheer rises, so close that he jumps. Many pairs of feet echo on the floorboards, and the doors to the room are abruptly flung open. Except it isn’t the Master who fills the doorway with his bulk, but-  

“An Elf!” A _naugrim_ spits, his bearded face immediately creasing in loathing. A dozen more heads grumble and growl from behind him. “What is their kind doing _here?”_

Legolas stares in disbelief. Though all the hairy little creatures look similar, he knows that they are the same creatures who were jailed in his father’s prison.

“This Elf is a Messenger from great King Thranduil, Master Dwarf.” The Master’s voice speaks from behind the unruly cluster. “I will make sure he will do you and your people no harm while here, don’t you worry.”

“I dinnae think that _that_ beardless twig can harm even our Burglar,” another _naugrim_ growls, his bushy eyebrows narrowing over hard eyes. “Look at him! He’s no bigger than one’a Kili’s arrows!”

A roar of laughter follows the dwarf’s words, and Legolas grits back a wave of dislike. “You-”

“Oh, don’t mind them, Master Elf.” The smallest creature Legolas has ever seen emerges from the noisy group and fixes a thin smile up at him. “They’re just hungry and wet.”

“Speak for yourself, Bilbo!” Someone calls as the _naugrim_ rush to the table and take their places, already reaching for the food-platters. They all give his seat a healthy berth. “An’ leave that pointy-eared bastard to his own plate of greens.”

Legolas hardly hears the insult- he’s too busy trying to figure out what the bright-eyed, beardless little creature is. He is small, as small as the _naugrim_ around him, but where they are of stone, he is rounder, and with strange pointed ears sticking out from behind copper curls.

“What are you?” He breathes, and then flushes. That sounded a lot ruder than he’d intended. “I- I mean, I’ve never met one of your kind before.”

“A hobbit.” The little fellow says, and extends a hand. “From the Shire. Bilbo Baggins, at your service. May I sit by you?”

Legolas cannot help it- he laughs as he shakes the proffered hand, and then gestures to the empty seat beside him. “Please. A hobbit? I’ve never-”

“Never heard of our kind?” The hobbit interrupts with a dry hum, settling happily on the cushioned chair. “Not surprised, honestly. Most of your folk haven’t. Although- you _have_ heard of a wizard by the name of Gandalf, haven’t you?”

“Gandalf?” The name sparks faint recognition in him, and he rolls it on his tongue. “I- oh! Do you mean _Mithrandir?”_ The grey-wandering pilgrim, the wizard with wisdom and mischief in equal measure. Legolas has not seen him since he was small, but Annith and Lhosben always speak fondly of the grey-cloaked wanderer.

“Ye-es, that’ll be him.” The hobbit- Bilbo- rocks on his bare toes. “He travelled with our company for a while. Right up to your forest’s edge, actually.”

“A company of _naugrim,_ a hobbit and a wizard.” Legolas states. A storm is growing in the back of his mind, blowing suspicious winds. And then sunlight breaks through the clouds and warms him. “That….that sounds like an adventure.”

Bilbo tilts his shoulders. “A bloody long one, if you ask me- oh, sorry. I mean. Quite so.”

Legolas laughs, and the sound is louder than he anticipated, rising above the grumblings of hungry _naugrim_ and scraping of plates. Immediately he claps a hand over his mouth with a stifled “oh!”

“What- what amuses you so, Master Elf?” The Master calls from around a mouthful of food. The collection of dwarves seated by him glower at Legolas, their suspicion and dislike clear.

“My bad manners, Master of Laketown.” The hobbit interjects before Legolas can scramble for an excuse. His lips twist into a wry grin. “I seem to have forgotten how to speak to civilised folk.”

“Hey, who are you callin’ uncivilised-like, Mister Bilbo?” One of the _naugrim_ protests, though his guttural voice has no real anger in it. Another lobs a boiled potato at the hobbit, only to have it blocked by the head of a surprisingly swift spoon.

Legolas watches the exchange with wide eyes. Any formality, or propriety, that had been leading up to the dinner has vanished as quickly as summer rains.

“Excuse _them,_ Master Elf.” Bilbo shakes his head, though his lips are curled in an amused grin. He does not abandon the potato, but instead cuts it with a knife and butters the warm inside. “Would you like some?”

For some reason, the softness of his voice makes Legolas think of Faervel, and the own way she would slide food onto his plate. Where he would have once thought it child-like and an indication of his youth, now he thinks that she did it out of love. His _fae_ flares with a thorn’s tip of pain. She must be frantic with worry, or most likely, doubly furious at his treachery.

“No, thank you.” He says politely, pulls a smile to his lips and squashing the thought. Thinking of her, and home, will not help him now.

“Buttered potato always made me feel better,” Bilbo says casually, forking some into his mouth and groaning with delight. “Oh, this is lovely. A little overdone, but- hmm, the butter’s so fresh. You really should try some, before my friends eat them all.”

Legolas starts. “You call them friends?”

Some of the warmth in Bilbo’s eyes fades. “Yes.” He says, setting his fork down. “I do. We’ve been through all kinds of trouble together, and I can safely say that they are the truest friends I’ve ever had.”

“Oh.” Legolas says softly. Underneath the hobbit’s soft exterior, he can read loyalty and strength, and shame replaces the icy blast of shock. “I- forgive me.”

“I know how techy your kind are with theirs,” Bilbo continues, his gaze measuring, as though he can read Legolas just as well, “and I cannot say my friends are without fault, but….but sometimes old grudges really should be put aside, so that something new can grow. Don’t you think, Master Elf?”

“Legolas,” he says, even though as a Messenger his name is his King’s, and his word the word of his King. “I am Legolas.”

The hobbit nods. “Legolas.”

“A toast!” The Master cries, and the quiet which had settled between them is burst. The Man lifts his glass, and the table follows suit, glasses clinking. “To bounty!”  

“To gold and riches!” Alfrid calls, and a roar rises from the _naugrim._

Bilbo’s gaze remains on him. _Very well_ , Legolas thinks, and raises his own voice daringly. “To long friendships, and endless trade between my people and yours!”

That earns him a few sour-eyed glares from the _dwarrow_ , but it is to Bilbo and the Master to whom Legolas looks. The hobbit’s eyes are bright with approval, while the Man’s grin widens.

“Let us drink, my friends, to…long-lasting friendships.”

Simultaneously chastened and triumphant, Legolas takes a healthy gulp of dorwinion as soon as the Master tips his goblet back. The drink is as overwhelmingly potent as he’d expected, sending a blaze of heat down his chest to mingle with the night’s journey and eventual- unbelieving- success.

Somehow, with a friend seated beside him, and an open town around him, Legolas feels almost _content._

The toasting and feasting continues, until even Bilbo has to sit back with a satisfied groan, and Legolas cannot tell if it is the room which spins, or his head.  

“Well!” Bilbo sighs from beside him. “This wine is very nice indeed. Quite rich.”

“A little bitter,” Legolas says, and tries to adjust in his seat. The goblet is not yet half-empty, and still his mind is like a pool disturbed, thoughts rippling over and over, his _rhaw_ neither still nor moving. Before his very eyes the candles tilt and his _fae_ leaps within his chest.

Oh…how his head spins!  

_You are weary,_ a voice suggests, sweet as honeysuckle. Is it his? Or someone else’s? He…he cannot tell. _You have travelled far, O Prince. Rest_ now _._

Legolas sways- and the candles sway with him. The whole room leans to one side- tilting like the sides of a barge against the lapping water.  

“Oh- are you quite alright, Legolas?” Someone pats his shoulder, the touch so light that he cannot feel their _fae_.  

He tries to speak- but darkness rears in front of his eyes and clouds his every sense. There is no use struggling- there is neither spell nor call to fight, just a black nothingness that pulls him down, down, down.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My lovelies,   
> Thank you for the wait! Let's just say that my first year of university hit hard, and I kind of lost motivation in this fic, until yesterday I was sitting on my bed and thought 'y'unno, you still have a basically finished chapter of 'green are the leaves' sitting on your hard-drive, and you might as well post it.' So I did. And I can promise you, I am NOT giving up on this baby, but the updates will be infrequent as I have to wrestle with uni life, home life and finding a job. But all of you, your kudoses and messages all honestly provide so much support and encouragement that there is an audience out there, so THANK YOU. xxxx

**Author's Note:**

> Just a head's up- in this story Legolas is only 57 'summers', and thus very young for an Elf. He'd be about 12-14 in human years, if that helps. 
> 
> Thranduil? Well, he's Old as Balls and completely done with everything save for his own children. (But even they prove to be more of a handful than he expected.)
> 
> Sindarin: 
> 
> Fae- spirit   
> Rhaw- body   
> Ellon/Ellyn-Elleth/Ellyn- Male elf/s-female elf/s  
> Edhel/Edhil- Elf/Elves  
> Eryn Galen- The Greenwood  
> Ada/Adar- Dad/Father  
> Ungol/Yngyl- Spider/s  
> Laeslas/Laes- rough translation is "Baby leaf/Baby"- the pet name given to Legolas, used by everyone.  
> Ethuil- Spring  
> Iavas- Autumn
> 
> P.S Comments are just as appreciated as Kudos!


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